Fragments of Murder
by Joodiff
Summary: When Boyd finds himself in a whole lot of trouble can Grace defy the odds to help him? T for language etc. Enjoy!
1. The Morning After

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

**Content Warning:** this story includes occasional brief, non-graphic references to rape.

**Dedication:** _for everyone who still enjoys reading stories in this fandom._

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**Fragments of Murder**

by Joodiff

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**ONE – The Morning After**

Thankfully, Boyd is already waiting when she pulls her car irritably into the kerb, and when he opens the passenger door and awkwardly folds himself into the passenger seat next to her, Grace gives him the full force of the most disapproving scowl she can manage. Pithily, she says, "Look at the state of you, Boyd. You're a mess."

It's no word of a lie, either. His elegant designer suit is crumpled, yesterday's crisp white shirt is now limp and irrevocably creased and he looks weary and thoroughly dishevelled. He's a man in urgent need of a shave and a shower if ever she saw one, and she strongly suspects he also needs several hours of uninterrupted sleep at the very least. Putting his seatbelt on, he mutters, "Oh, God… Can we save the lecture until I'm feeling at least vaguely human?"

"Self-inflicted injury," Grace tells him waspishly, "don't expect any sympathy from me."

Unexpectedly, his response is a deep, slightly wry chuckle followed by, "I can live without the sympathy as long as you help me find the damned car."

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Grace says, not entirely sure he's joking, "just how much did you have to drink after I left last night?"

Boyd shakes his head. "Honestly? I have no bloody idea. Don't ever make the mistake of sitting up drinking into the small hours with lawyers or law-students, Grace – it never ends well."

Putting the car back into gear, Grace says pointedly, "Please tell me that whatever-her-name-was wasn't a student?"

"Erin," he supplies. "Nope. Barrister's clerk."

"From the brief glimpse I got, she didn't look old enough," Grace retorts, deliberately caustic.

He glowers at her. "Ouch, Grace. She's thirty-six."

"Which is still at least twenty years too young for you."

Boyd shrugs insouciantly. "What can I say? Women like me."

"Entirely the _wrong_ women like you, Boyd," Grace tells him as she irritably accelerates away from the kerb. The unworthy and entirely unwanted surge of jealousy that prickles through her doesn't improve her mood. "Did you get _any_ sleep?"

He runs a hand slowly through his ruffled hair and yawns. Quite intentionally, she's sure. "Not much."

"Oh, God."

Slumping further down in his seat, Boyd shoots her a faintly amused sideways look. "You asked."

"You didn't _have_ to give me an answer," Grace complains in response. It's more than obvious how he's spent at least part of the night – if nothing else in the warm confined space it's impossible not to detect the underlying note of unfamiliar female perfume, an incongruously floral scent tightly intermingled with a lingering mix of alcohol, stale sweat and male musk. He most _definitely_ needs a shower. It's bad enough vividly imagining exactly what he's been up to, she thinks sourly, without having to endure the physical evidence.

Apparently oblivious to her mounting displeasure, Boyd counters, "A shining example of female logic at its very best. Turn right into Adelaide Road up ahead, or we'll get stuck in Camden High Street. The traffic's always bloody awful along there at this time in the morning."

She glares fiercely at him. "Who's driving?"

His reply is disingenuously meek. "You are, Grace."

"Shut up and let me drive, then."

-oOo-

Despite her annoyance and her dignified display of tart disapproval, Grace can't really find it in her heart to condemn him too harshly for his recent erratic behaviour. Life has been incredibly hard for Peter Boyd over the last few months and she's inclined to take the fact that he actually attended the unofficial celebration surrounding the successful prosecution and conviction of Roland Pearce as something of a good omen. She doesn't doubt the continuing depth and savagery of his pain and grief, but he does seem to be slowly finding his way back to himself a little and she's intensely grateful for that. True, he's usually a little more circumspect, a little more wary about allowing his… recreational activities… to be scrutinised by his colleagues, but Grace knows as well as anyone that he isn't averse to indulging in occasional brief, exciting liaisons with young women who catch his eye. Still, it's the first time in all the years she's known him that he's ever made her complicit in such a thing, and she wonders a little about that. Perhaps she's simply reading too much into it; Boyd is not renowned for his tact and sensitivity and it's entirely possible that on waking it genuinely did strike him as a perfectly good and reasonable idea to call on her for early-morning rescue instead of simply summoning a taxi.

How he's managed the radical transformation, she's not quite sure, but by the time the CCU's core team are assembled in the squad room for their customary morning meeting he's in his office not only showered, shaved, immaculately dressed and ruthlessly well-groomed but alert, energetic and apparently surprisingly good-humoured. Sometimes even Grace is tempted to believe the prevailing rumour that there's actually no reason for him to go home on a regular basis – when he needs to he does seem perfectly able to live solely out of his locker and his desk drawers for days on end. A considerable advantage during the tense, concluding days of difficult cases, no doubt, but evidently equally useful when returning to work directly from someone else's bed. She isn't surprised to discover that she doesn't particularly want to spend too much time considering that sort of scenario.

By the time she appropriates the empty chair next to Stella, however, a certain amount of inevitable gossip and ribaldry is already afoot. Spencer – naturally enough – is providing much of the commentary. "…though from what I hear, it's more like thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six."

It seems, though, that Eve at least is wise to him, because her only comment is simply a caustic, "Jealous much, Spence?"

Although he's still sequestered in his office, Boyd can hear every word, Grace is quite sure of that, but it seems he's intentionally not rising to the provocation. He has his faults, but he understands the importance of morale-raising chatter and banter in such a tight-knit group of colleagues, and everyone knows he has developed incredibly selective hearing over the years. Provided no-one oversteps the mark, she's fairly sure he'll continue to completely fail to overhear the bawdy squad room conversation about the preceding night. A hard-headed tyrant Peter Boyd may very well be, but in many ways he allows his subordinates a lot more leeway than most other senior commanders – one reason, Grace knows, why those who finally decide to run the risk of joining the CCU rarely choose to leave it voluntarily.

Eventually, however, he steps out of his office and the banter falls gently away. They may grumble about him, they may make off-colour jokes about him behind his back, but they thoroughly respect him, all of them.

Grace waits for him to automatically take the chair next to hers, and of course he does, settling with a vague murmur of acknowledgement. Now, thankfully, he merely smells of soap and aftershave, all lingering traces of the night before vigorously scrubbed away. It's a considerable improvement as far as she is concerned. The mood in the room has changed, become altogether more solemn and professional, and within minutes they are all gravely discussing the minutiae of several active cases and lines of investigation. They are a disciplined and practised unit, a good team, and despite various minor differences of opinion the meeting progresses smoothly, unexceptionally.

All of them look round when the double-doors unexpectedly open to admit two uniformed constables and a tall, fair-haired man dressed in a sombre dark grey suit. It is the besuited man who holds up a warrant card and says soberly, "DI Kevin Grant, Camden CID. I'm looking for Detective Superintendent Peter Boyd…?"

Boyd gets to his feet, and the belligerent set of his shoulders immediately tells Grace that things will not go well for DI Grant if he doesn't have a very good reason indeed for boldly daring to walk into the CCU's offices unannounced. Yet Boyd's tone is also deceptively quiet as he says, "How can I help you, Detective Inspector?"

Grant takes a single step forward. He doesn't look remotely daunted as he announces, "Peter Timothy Boyd, I am arresting you on suspicion of the rape and murder of Erin Jackson. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if…"

-oOo-


	2. Evidence

**TWO – Evidence**

"Alan Tomlinson," Spencer informs them succinctly as he puts the telephone receiver down. He shakes his head at their expectant looks. "They still haven't charged him."

"They're running out of time," Stella announces. The laconic statement is completely unnecessary – doubtless they are all thinking exactly the same thing. Boyd has been in custody for over thirty hours now, and unless Grant applies to a magistrate very soon…

Grace takes a deep, steadying breath and then exhales slowly and deliberately. Into the tense silence that has settled over the squad room, she says, "Then we continue to do exactly what we've been doing until they either charge or release him."

No-one says anything. Stella looks down at her keyboard. Spencer stands up. Grace looks expectantly at Eve, and receives a cursory shrug of acknowledgement. Standing in front of the largely-forgotten evidence board, Spencer folds his arms across his broad chest. "We can't afford to forget that this isn't our investigation, Grace."

She stares at him in disbelief. "So what are you suggesting, Spence? That we should just sit back and watch Boyd get thrown to the wolves?"

"No, of course not," Spencer says sharply, his impatience betraying intense underlying stress, "but, c'mon, realistically what else is there left that we can do? We're skating on increasingly thin ice as it is…"

It's an effort not to loudly censure him, but she replies as calmly as she can, not raising her voice. "I _know_ that. I'm not proposing we attempt to go directly to Grant again – just that we carry on doing whatever we can. Anything we can clarify and feed back via Tomlinson has got to be worth the effort, surely? Eve, you've already said that you've seen the forensics – "

"_Unofficially_, Grace," Eve stresses quickly, "and from the brief look I was able to take there's absolutely nothing there that helps."

"That's not a reason not to attempt to look more closely," Grace says doggedly. She looks round at her colleagues, surveying each familiar face in turn. "Unless anyone here is actually starting to think that he's guilty?"

"No-one thinks that, Grace," Spencer retorts. He shakes his head. "Whoever killed Erin Jackson, it can't have been Boyd."

"Yet suddenly you're not interested in helping to establish that beyond any doubt?" Grace challenges.

For a moment the already strained atmosphere in the gloomy room threatens to become one of genuine hostility, but when Spencer abruptly sits back down, the fierce tension slowly eases. His voice quiet and level, he says, "All right. Let's look again at what we have. Eve, what _can_ you tell us?"

She shrugs slightly. "Really not very much. I was only able to take a quick look, but everything I saw appeared… consistent… with what we know of Boyd's statement."

"'Consistent'?" Grace prompts. There's something about the unusual hesitancy in Eve's voice that draws her attention.

The younger woman looks very far from happy. She's almost scowling as she says, "Just how specific do you want me to be, Grace? He definitely had sex with her, okay?"

"There was… forensic evidence… to that effect?" Spencer questions, his voice still very calm, very professional.

Evidently deeply uncomfortable – a highly unusual phenomenon – Eve doesn't look at anyone as she replies, "According to the post mortem report, presence of semen was confirmed by both vaginal and oral swabs. Crime scene technicians found further traces on the living room sofa and in the bedroom. Actually, according to their report, Boyd's fingerprints and DNA are pretty much all over Erin's flat."

"Well, we know he admitted going back there and having sex with her," Stella says, glancing round as if for support. None is forthcoming.

"As I said," Eve continues, "the forensics seem to be entirely consistent with the statement he gave to Grant."

"And the cause of death was definitely asphyxiation due to manual strangulation?" Spencer inquires.

Eve nods. Her relief at moving on to a considerably less awkward topic is palpable. "Petechiae present in the skin, hyoid's fractured and there are contusions around her throat. An almost classic presentation."

It is Stella who cautiously asks, "So… could Boyd have done it?"

"I assume you mean physically? No question. Erin wasn't a big woman by any means and he's easily heavy enough and powerful enough to have held her down and throttled her." Eve pauses. "There's something else. When the FME examined Boyd, he found several fresh minor excoriations on his chest and shoulders."

Grace has been involved in more than enough violent crime investigations over the years to not only understand the terminology but also the possible implications. She looks straight at her colleague. "DNA…?"

"Textbook example of Locard's exchange principle, I'm afraid. At some point that night, Erin scratched him hard enough for the medical examiner to be able to find the evidence the next day."

-oOo-

"Just because she scratched him it doesn't mean he attacked her, though, does it?"

Seated behind her desk, Grace studies Spencer silently for a moment, noting his barely-contained antagonism, his unusual restlessness as he prowls her office. It's not difficult to understand – his relationship with Boyd is as complex and contradictory as hers in its own way. It's not really surprising that he doesn't seem to know what to think, what to do. Unconsciously, she leans forward slightly. "Are you asking me or telling me, Spence?"

"Either. Both." He briefly stops pacing. "Christ, Grace, I simply can't believe he would ever… but you've got to admit, the evidence doesn't exactly support his version of events, does it?"

"Which is why he needs us now more than ever." Grace sighs and rubs her temples. The lack of sleep and the high stress of the last couple of days are definitely catching up with her. "Look, you were there the other night; you saw the way she was flirting with him. We _all_ did."

"Doesn't mean that when it came down to it…" His words trail away into silence.

"This is _Boyd_ we're talking about." She takes a steadying breath, refusing to let herself get angry with him. Less brusquely, she continues, "Even if she took him home and then suddenly changed her mind – which I don't for one moment believe she did – we're not just talking about dubious issues of consent, are we? She was brutally _murdered_, Spence. Someone held her down and forcibly choked the life out of her. Tell me you really think Boyd is capable of doing something like that?"

He looks straight at her. "Man's got a temper on him, Grace, everyone knows that."

She's appalled. "Oh, come _on_…"

Spencer starts to pace again. "All I'm saying is that it _really_ doesn't look good."

"We're approaching this the wrong way," she says abruptly. When Spencer glances round at her, Grace continues, "Instead of trying to prove that Boyd _didn't_ do it, we need to try and prove that someone else _did_. If this was our case and Boyd wasn't involved, where would you look next for a suspect?"

"The boyfriend," Spencer replies promptly, "Mark Fuller. But we already know he has a cast-iron alibi. He was seen in Dagenham at around seven that morning by at least one reliable independent witness, and again by his landlady not long after eight. Erin's neighbours say they heard a disturbance in her flat just after seven, and you say you picked Boyd up on Haverstock Hill at eight. Even the damned timeline's against us, Grace."

She doesn't want to admit it, but Spencer's right. She shakes her head stubbornly. "So if it wasn't Boyd and it wasn't Fuller…"

"You're forgetting something."

"What?"

Spencer gazes at her steadily. "Forensics didn't turn up any other significant trace of male DNA. Not on Erin's body and not in her flat. I don't like it any more than you do, but it looks like a straightforward two-horse race, Grace."

"Then we need to check Fuller's alibi. See if it's really as cast-iron as Grant believes."

"You're clutching at straws," he tells her.

She stands up quickly, mounting anger making her movements jerky. "Then give me another explanation, Spence. One that _doesn't_ involve Boyd, because even if he wasn't our friend and colleague, I'd still tell you that he simply doesn't profile for something like this."

"He's an angry man with poor impulse control – that makes him a pretty good suspect in my book."

Grace glares at him. "So now you're saying you think he _did_ do it?"

Spencer's defensive reply is lost as Stella taps on the open office door's glass and almost immediately says, "Spence? The DAC's office just called. They want to see you at the Yard in an hour."

The news is hardly unexpected, but it only adds to Grace's ever-increasing sense of foreboding.

-oOo-


	3. Police Bail

**THREE – Police Bail**

She is in the car, driving steadily home, but although the connection is very bad, she immediately recognises the cultured voice of Boyd's solicitor when it crackles in her ear. "Doctor Foley?"

There is nowhere immediately available to stop and the call is important to her, so Grace grimly ignores both her common sense and her principles and carries on negotiating the early-evening traffic one-handed. "Mr Tomlinson. Is there any news?"

His response is quick and calm. "There is. It may not be altogether as good as you hoped for, however. Mr Boyd has been released on police bail pending further enquiries."

An instantaneous and strong sense of relief rises within her, but it is quickly tempered by circumspection. Tomlinson is right – the news could be far better. Being released on police bail is very far from being exonerated. It doesn't mean Grant believes Boyd is innocent, only that there is not yet a strong enough case to charge him. Trying not to sound too despondent, she says, "I see. Have any particular bail conditions been imposed?"

"Nothing unexpected. He's not allowed anywhere near the CCU's headquarters, of course – though I understand he's now been officially suspended until further notice."

"He has." The terse edict brought back from New Scotland Yard by Spencer had been incredibly clear on several fundamental points, including Boyd's suspension from duty and the impending appointment of an interim unit commander. Boyd may not – yet – have been charged with any offence, but it seems his superiors aren't prepared to wait any longer to be seen to be taking some sort of decisive action.

"Standard procedure," Tomlinson's voice says crisply in her ear. "You should also be aware that everything that can possibly be done to keep the media away from this is being done – but sooner or later…"

Grace nods, well-aware that he can't see her. "I know."

"These things do tend to leak eventually, I'm afraid." There's a slight rustling sound as if he is shuffling papers. "He has to report to Greenwich police station daily, and he will be formally interviewed by DI Grant's team again at the end of the week, if not before. I would expect them to charge or release him at that point."

Finally locating a safe place to stop the car, Grace does so and then transfers her phone to the other ear. "Do you know if he's gone home? I need to talk to him as soon as possible."

"I really wouldn't advise you to," Tomlinson informs her gravely. "It could… muddy the waters. Should there be a trial."

She can't think about that. Can't bring herself to imagine Boyd standing in the dock as a defendant. As the traffic continues to stream past her stationary car, she frowns in the semi-darkness. "Why? I'm not a police officer."

His reply is patient and faintly condescending. "I'm aware of that, Doctor. But you _are_ a colleague in an investigative unit that could conceivably be accused of illegitimately obtaining access to privileged information, and you did give a statement to Grant's team."

"All I could tell them was exactly what I told you – I picked Boyd up from Haverstock Hill at eight o'clock that morning."

"I think it's highly likely they'll want to interview you again in more detail at some point," he replies. "Of course, I can't prevent you from contacting him, but at this stage I really don't think it would be in anyone's best interests for you to attempt do so."

Angrily, Grace grinds out, "Peter Boyd isn't a rapist, Mr Tomlinson, and he certainly doesn't have it in him to strangle a defenceless young woman to death."

"I'm quite sure you're right," he says in a tone that suggests he is wearily humouring her, "but my job is to provide the best possible legal advice to my client – and subsequently to those associated with him. Therefore I would strongly suggest that you give serious thought to the possible ramifications of trying to contact him."

"Rest assured, I will do exactly that," she tells him, not quite able to keep the bitter edge out of her tone. "Thank you for calling me, Mr Tomlinson."

The unsatisfactory conversation at an end, Grace sits unmoving in her seat, dozens of interconnected thoughts and fears tumbling restlessly through her mind. There is no part of her, personal or professional, that believes that her old friend and colleague could be in _any_ way involved in Erin Jackson's murder but it's impossible not to grudgingly agree with Spencer – things don't look good for Boyd. Not at all. If there is no DNA evidence to support the presence of a third potential suspect in Erin's flat that night, then there are only two possible conclusions that she can reluctantly draw from all the mounting evidence – Fuller's alibi is false or she is entirely wrong in her grim assertion that Boyd cannot be guilty.

He couldn't have killed Erin. He just couldn't. Yes, he's a notoriously temperamental man and yes, he definitely hasn't been himself since his son's tragic death, but he has a stubborn personal integrity that Grace has always admired; a strongly-ingrained sense of what is right and what is wrong. A police officer isn't just _what_ Boyd is, it's _who_ he is. So many times she's gritted her teeth and looked the other way when his methods have been questionable, not because she's been afraid to challenge him but because although she has disapproved of the _how_, the _why_ has been understandable. Boyd believes in far more than the law – he believes in _justice_. And maybe that's why she so often deliberately chooses to ignore the less attractive facets of his personality in favour of… admiring… the great good heart of the man.

Her phone starts to ring again. A mobile number she doesn't recognise appears on the display. She answers hesitantly with a simple, "Hello?"

"Grace." The gruff male voice is painfully familiar but it's heavily laced with an intense stress and anxiety that is not. He doesn't waste time on pleasantries, he just bluntly proclaims, "It wasn't me. I didn't kill her."

As her fingers instinctively tighten around her own phone, Grace closes her eyes. "I know."

-oOo-

They meet on a deserted stretch of the Thames Path not far from Cable Street and Shadwell Basin. It's not a particularly salubrious area, especially at night, but perhaps that's for the best. It's not a place anyone would immediately think to look for either of them. Boyd, Grace instantly realises, is still wearing the suit he was arrested in, but he looks significantly less dapper than he did the last time she saw him. In the harsh, unflattering light of the street lamps he looks pale, drawn and much, much older. Unsure how to greet him as he approaches, she settles for an inane, "Boyd. Are you okay?"

He grimaces. "Yeah, I guess. Physically, at least."

"Your solicitor strongly advised me against talking to you."

Boyd doesn't look surprised. "I'm sure he did. But…?"

She raises her chin an unconscious, defiant fraction. "But I'm simply not prepared to stand by and watch them put a noose around your neck."

"I hope to God you're talking figuratively, Grace."

"It's cold," she says after a moment, not knowing how else to drive the awkward conversation forward. "Shall we walk?"

Boyd shrugs, but he automatically falls into step with her. They have only walked a few feet when he admits, "I keep thinking this is some God-awful nightmare and that sooner or later I'm going to wake up."

Head down, Grace says quietly, "So, are you going to tell me your side of it?"

"Not much to tell that you don't already know," he replies brusquely. However, he almost immediately continues, "We got a taxi back to her place, had a few more drinks, fooled around a bit. You know how it goes. When I left in the morning she was very much alive."

She stops under one of the street lamps to look at him keenly. "That's not exactly a detailed account, Boyd."

"Christ, how detailed do you expect me to be under these sort of circumstances?" he demands, growling belligerence clearly masking a very atypical discomfiture.

"It's a bit late to be worrying about sparing anyone's blushes," Grace tells him rather more sharply than she intends. She searches for a way to make it quite clear to him that there is no point in attempting to conceal anything about that night from her, no matter how difficult and embarrassing the resulting conversation might be for them both, and finally settles on a curt, "Look, Eve managed to get a look at the forensics and the crime scene report, okay?"

Boyd is silent for several long moments, presumably absorbing the unwelcome implication of her words. They both know exactly what sort of information such reports routinely contain. Eventually he clears his throat roughly. "After we got back to her place we had a couple of drinks and a quick fumble on the sofa, but to be honest we were both pretty loaded so we decided just to go to bed. I think we both more-or-less passed out." There's a brief pause before he continues, "It must have been a little after five when she woke me by getting up to use the bathroom. Still dark outside, anyway. We had sex. _Consensual_ sex, Grace. Afterwards, Erin went back to sleep but I didn't. Oh, I tried to, but I just couldn't relax enough. In the end I had so many things continuously going round and round in my head that I decided to get up and leave. I didn't want to wake her up, so I got dressed, I wrote my number and a brief note on a scrap of paper by the bed and I left."

The tersely-delivered account certainly has a clear ring of truth about it. The latter information also helps to explain how and why he so quickly became a suspect. The story doesn't end there, she's sure. Grace looks at him expectantly. "And then you called me?"

But Boyd shakes his head. "No, then I walked around the streets and along the canal for a bit, trying to clear my head. I was absolutely knackered, Grace, not to mention atrociously hung-over."

"So what time did you actually leave Erin's flat?"

He frowns as if he is surprised by the tenacity with which she's pursuing the details. He rubs his beard reflectively and shrugs. "Around six-thirty."

"You didn't call me until seven-thirty," Grace points out.

"I _told_ you," he says defensively, "I was just wandering about thinking and feeling sorry for myself. In the end I bought one of those bloody awful energy drinks at a little newsagents near Camden Market and I went back and stood on the towpath for a while. _Then_ I called you."

She doesn't press him for more information. There's no point in antagonising him further. Instead she says, "Erin's downstairs neighbours heard a loud disturbance in her flat at around seven."

There's a stubborn note in Boyd's voice as he says, "Yeah, well I'd left _well_ before then – and when I did she was sound asleep."

"You're sure?" It's a stupid question, but one Grace feels compelled to ask.

He stares at her incredulously. "That I left before then, or that she was asleep? Fuck's sake, Grace, I didn't accidentally strangle her in the throes of passion and then leave her for dead thinking she was just having a bit of a snooze, did I? What sort of man do you take me for? She was _alive and asleep_ when I left."

"The boyfriend – "

"Whose existence, by the way, I was blissfully unaware of until after I was arrested."

" – was seen in Dagenham at seven and again at eight. Grant told Spence that there's time-stamped CCTV footage in addition to reliable eye-witnesses."

"So someone else killed her," he says obstinately.

Grace shakes her head despondently. "There _was_ no-one else, Boyd."

-oOo-


	4. Sherlock Holmes

**FOUR – Sherlock Holmes**

"Don't let the fact that it's Boyd totally blind you," Eve advises quietly as they walk towards the concrete steps that lead down to the CCU's unprepossessing squad room. Grace raises her eyebrows a fraction, wondering about the implication. Eve shrugs in response. "Look, I know you've known each other for a long time and I know you're… very fond… of him, but if this was any other investigation…"

Instantly defensive, Grace shakes her head. "If Grant was _really_ convinced it was an open-and-shut case there's no way Boyd would've been released on police bail."

"He hasn't been released without charge, though, has he? There's a big difference, Grace."

The grim truth, naturally enough, stings. As does Eve's acute perception. But how can she be expected to remain completely professional and objective about a murder case when the chief suspect is one of her closest friends? Grace glares at nothing in particular. "I'm aware of that, thank you. I'm just saying there's still room for reasonable doubt."

"I don't think he killed Erin any more than you do," Eve replies candidly, "but you have to admit that the evidence is compelling."

"There's _got_ to be another explanation, Eve."

Their conversation is abruptly terminated as they finally enter the squad room for their first encounter with the unit's new temporary commander, Chief Superintendent William Marshall. To Grace's surprise he is dressed in full police uniform – immaculately pressed. A slim, wiry-looking man very similar in age to Boyd, he seems to exude an air of quietly self-important authority. Very short iron-grey hair, chilly blue eyes and the kind of narrow, intense features that remind her forcibly of an inquisitive and irritable bird of prey. He's not exactly unprepossessing, but there's nothing immediately likeable about him. Then, she is heavily biased – rather more than anyone else on the team, she suspects. It's not in her nature to pre-judge people, so she offers a tentative smile of greeting. She's not sure if Marshall notices – he certainly doesn't smile back.

He greets them coolly and civilly, and once everyone is expectantly settled he takes position in front of the recently-cleaned evidence board and opens with, "I'm not a detective and I'm not here to tell you how to do your jobs. I'm here to provide the authority and seniority you need to get those jobs done smoothly and efficiently. I do, however, expect to be kept informed of your activities. DI Jordan will act as a direct liaison between us and he will provide me with daily status reports." He looks at each of them in turn, his gaze unyielding. "I will be acting as this unit's commanding officer until the current… situation… is resolved – at which point either DSI Boyd will be returned to duty or a permanent replacement commander will be appointed. Until that time I expect you all to carry out your duties diligently, punctually and cooperatively." A tiny and rather meaningful pause precedes, "Doctors Lockhart and Foley, as civilian staff you will obviously be expected to continue to maintain the highest standards in your respective disciplines and to continue to collaborate fully with the rest of the investigative team."

Grace can feel the tangible ripples of uneasy tension that are coursing through the room. Collectively and individually they are not used to being addressed in such a pompously officious manner. It's certainly not the Peter Boyd way. It strikes her that Marshall might not have been the best choice of interim commander. Then again, perhaps someone at New Scotland Yard has an agenda. Make the most of the unexpected opportunity to bring the recalcitrant misfits of the CCU firmly back into line without having to risk the infamous wrath of their fiery commander. There's an air of expectancy in the room, Grace realises, as if her colleagues are waiting for her to issue a challenge by right of seniority. So be it. Carefully, she says, "With all due respect, Chief Superintendent, we are an extremely experienced multi-disciplinary team with a long and proven track record. I think we all know what is expected of us."

Marshall looks straight at her and although his expression is dispassionate and largely unreadable, she instantly forms the very strong impression that he has been forewarned, that someone has told him exactly where to look for any early signs of rebellion. His reply is quiet but steely. "I wasn't trying to imply anything else, Doctor Foley. But I think we are all well-aware of the particular difficulties that may arise due to the current unusual circumstances. This would seem to be an ideal moment to remind everyone that becoming in any way involved with Camden CID's investigation into the death of Erin Jackson is _not_ the remit of either the CCU or its personnel."

Unintimidated, Grace coolly stares back at him. "Meaning?"

"Loyalty is to be commended," he says, "but it can sometimes be misplaced. DI Jordan, a word."

Grace watches in silence as the two men withdraw into Boyd's office. Next to her, Eve says dryly, "Well, that certainly told us, didn't it?"

-oOo-

Marshall's presence in Boyd's office feels wrong. As the day progresses it seems to Grace that he is not intending to have much interaction with anyone apart from Spencer. When encountered he is polite enough in a distinctly cool way, but he noticeably tries to keep his distance from the team and he doesn't attempt to directly involve himself in any of the daily round of discussions that characterise the way they usually work. Unlike Boyd, he does not suddenly and unexpectedly appear to ask awkward questions or offer unsolicited opinions, and he doesn't roam around apparently at random leaving flurries of chaos and confusion in his wake. He simply stays behind his borrowed desk, head firmly down over whatever it is he is doing. It's disconcerting to say the least, and in the unusual calm and quiet Grace finds it increasingly hard to concentrate. She does her best, steadily working through the contents of her in-tray, but the subdued atmosphere combined with her mounting worries about Boyd leave her tetchy and on edge.

Mid-afternoon she is interrupted by a diffident tap on her office door. She looks up cautiously. Stella. Smiling slightly in welcome she watches as the younger woman carefully closes the door behind her before advancing to say in a deliberately hushed tone, "They've got Boyd on CCTV heading north up Chalk Farm Road that morning. Spence just heard."

"Via a 'friend of a friend'?" Grace guesses.

Stella almost grins. Almost, but not quite. "Yeah, something like that."

"_North_ up Chalk Farm Road, Stella? Do we know what time?"

"Seven forty-two."

"So he would have been on his way to meet me on Haverstock Hill?"

Stella nods. "Looks like it."

"Which exactly ties in with what he told me last night. After he left Erin's flat he went down to Camden Market and then back up to Regent's Canal."

"It's not much," Stella says quietly, "but it might help a bit."

Grace leans back in her chair, reviewing what she knows. "The flat is near Talacre Gardens. If Boyd had been coming to meet me straight from there, he'd have been heading due west on the Prince of Wales Road, not northwards on Chalk Farm."

Stella nods solemnly. "That's exactly what Spence said."

-oOo-

It's not conclusive proof. That's what Grace keeps telling herself as she drives determinedly east. It's not conclusive proof or anything like it, but it certainly adds weight to Boyd's account of his movements. It also puts increased pressure on the established time-frame for that fateful morning, further narrowing the precious little time available for him to have killed Erin. It's something. Not much, as Stella said earlier, but it _is_ something.

She knows he isn't guilty. She just _knows_. It's more than her personal knowledge of the man and his character, far more than her professional opinion as an offender profiler; more even than the stubborn fancy of the weak, wishful part of her that is – always has been – secretly rather more than merely fond of him. It's a profoundly visceral thing, an instinct that remains absolutely unshakable in the face of all evidence to the contrary.

Boyd's house is halfway down a quiet residential side street not far from Trafalgar Road. A solidly middle-class enclave close to the north-eastern tip of Greenwich Park, it's a street predominantly occupied by reasonably affluent professional families. The kind of street where on Sunday mornings nearly-new cars are proudly washed and polished and well-tended lawns are carefully mown. Boyd's big silver Audi is parked at a sharp, rebellious angle on his short gravel drive. Grace wonders how long it will be before it is quietly collected and returned to the Met's carpool and immediately chastises herself for the pessimistic thought. Leaving her own car out on the street, she approaches the house with a brisk sort of defiance. She doubts Boyd is being kept under surveillance, but if he is, well, so be it.

The man who opens the door to her is strangely unfamiliar. He is tousled and haggard and she's never seen him quite so casually dressed. It takes her a moment to reconcile his current unkempt appearance with the good-looking, well-groomed man she knows so well. He looks down at her lugubriously, and despite everything there's a distinct trace of wry amusement in the way he pointedly says, "Yes? Can I help you?"

Realising that she's staring and that she must look more than slightly bemused, Grace recovers herself by saying tartly, "Oh, you really shouldn't have gone to the trouble of dressing up for the occasion, Boyd."

He shrugs, his shoulders not appearing quite so imposingly wide without the benefit of expensive tailoring. "I'm trying to adjust to the idea of spending the rest of my life wearing prison denims."

She feels her expression harden. "It's not going to come to that."

"No? Funny, I thought I was looking at fifteen years, minimum. Come in."

Grace follows him through the hall and into the big living room. She's visited the house on many occasions over the years, but never in such difficult circumstances. Accepting his offer of a drink, she seats herself on the sofa and says, "I take it you've heard all about our temporary commander?"

"Marshall? Yeah. God alone knows what the DAC was thinking, putting him in charge. The man's a complete…" Boyd grimaces. "Well, anyway. I think the last time he did any actual _policing_ was about twenty years ago."

"He's told Spencer that he expects to see him wearing a suit and tie tomorrow."

Boyd hands her a glass. "And you all thought _I_ was a royal pain in the arse."

The banter that usually flows so easily between them is forced, a brittle sort of façade that doesn't even begin to disguise the underlying strain and apprehension. Grace watches him settle into a chair, aware that he is deliberately keeping an abnormally wide physical distance between them – but whether for his sake or hers she isn't sure. It hurts, perhaps because it forcibly reminds her of the brutal nature of the crimes he is suspected of committing. Murder. Rape. It's appalling, all of it. She hears herself say, "We're doing everything we possibly can to help, Boyd, believe me."

He nods solemnly. "I know. And I'm more grateful than you'll ever realise, but…"

"Yes?"

"I hate to say it, Grace, but I don't think it's going to be enough."

That hurts, too. Because he sounds so weary, so fatalistic, and because a part of her suspects he might very well be right. With more conviction than she really feels, Grace says, "We'll make a break-through sooner or later, Boyd – we always do, don't we? But… there's something I need to ask you."

"Go on."

"It's… delicate." Understatement. It's not a question she wants to ask him and she's equally sure she doesn't really want to hear the answer he gives. If he deigns to answer at all.

Boyd snorts. "As you so helpfully pointed out yesterday, given the marvels of modern-day science it's a bit fucking late for me to be coy, isn't it?"

She _can't_ ask him. Not directly. Turning the awkward question into a simple statement of fact might be easier. Grace avoids looking at him as she says, "One piece of tangible rather than circumstantial evidence Grant _does_ have is that Erin scratched you. Your DNA was found under her fingernails, and when he examined you after your arrest the Forensic Medical Examiner found fresh scratch-marks on your chest and shoulders."

Silence. She risks a quick glance up to find that Boyd is giving her the kind of inscrutable look that suggests he thinks she's being deliberately and unnecessarily naïve. He shakes his head. "Jesus. What do you expect me to say? She was having a bloody good time, Grace. We _both_ were. Do you want me to be any cruder than that?"

She really doesn't. It's not easy, but Grace manages to suppress the surge of embarrassment that threatens to tinge her cheeks and also to simultaneously ignore the sharp ignoble stab of jealously that really couldn't be more inappropriate under the circumstances. It's none of her business what he does, who he does it with or _how_ he does it. But her imagination is a restless, traitorous thing and it busily works against her, conjuring tormenting images that she struggles to banish. Too sharply she says, "The alternative explanation, of course, is that she was fighting for her life."

The dark gaze settles bitterly on her. "I'm pretty damned sure she would have left me with more than a couple of faint scratches if that had been the case. Aren't you?"

Grace sighs heavily, unhappily. "I'm just trying to look at it from an impartial investigator's perspective. According to the forensics, one of two men killed Erin. One of them has been proved beyond any reasonable doubt to have been somewhere else at the time, the other was unquestionably in her flat that morning, had definitely had sex with her and was visibly scratched by her. Who would _you_ have arrested if _you_ were Grant?"

Boyd stands up abruptly and starts to pace, the tension in his body easily visible. "Fundamental principles. 'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth'."

"For God's sake, Boyd, this is not a good time to be quoting Sherlock Holmes."

"It's apposite," he growls. "I _know_ I didn't kill her – which from _my_ perspective therefore just leaves the improbable."

Grace nods, grudgingly accepting the logic. "All right. So?"

Boyd stops pacing and gazes intently at her. "Improbability, Grace. Given the evidence, it's apparently _improbable_ that Fuller killed her, but is it actually _impossible_?"

-oOo-


	5. Wheels Within Wheels

**FIVE – Wheels Within Wheels**

Detective Inspector Kevin Grant's office is small and chaotic but it's also surprisingly light thanks to a very tall window that frames an extraordinary panoramic view of myriad local rooftops and far-distant tall buildings. As Grace edges carefully through the disorganised clutter, Grant closes the door and waits for her to seat herself before walking quietly past her and taking position behind his desk. She thinks he looks incredibly tired, the pressure of the last few days showing clearly on his face. He says, "I'm sorry for the rather cryptic message I left this morning, Doctor Foley, but I wanted the chance to talk to you alone before we go down to the interview room and get on with the formalities."

Grace is very adept at reading people. It's a natural talent and also something of an essential prerequisite for her job. She watches him carefully as she asks, "_Alone_ in an 'off-the-record' sort of way?"

He nods. "Exactly. Look, let's not beat around the bush – whatever you think, I'm not the enemy and I'm certainly not pursuing any personal agenda here."

"Reassuring to hear."

"I've never worked with Peter Boyd," he tells her seriously, "and I try not to listen to rumour, but I've been a detective for long enough to know when things that initially seem simple aren't quite adding up."

It's encouraging news but Grace does not risk relaxing her guard. Not yet, not until she's certain she's not walking into an ambush. "So what are you actually saying, Mr Grant?"

Grant drums his fingers nervously on his desk and eventually sighs. "I'm saying… that despite what all the evidence is telling me, I'm not entirely convinced I've got the right man."

Her pulse quickens, but she keeps her voice quiet and level. "That's a big admission to make."

He grunts and looks down at the untidy slew of paperwork on his desk. When he looks up again he asks, "Do you know who my DI was when I first joined CID?"

Wondering what the connection is, Grace shakes her head. "Enlighten me."

"Jess Worrall."

She blinks at the unexpected revelation. Wheels within wheels. Like most police forces, the Met, though large, is in general a tight-knit organisation and it's rare to find any officer with more than a few years' service who doesn't know something of another particular officer through a third or fourth party. Over time, transfers to new units are requested or promotions are accepted, and when officers move to new teams they take their accumulated knowledge of their peers with them, furthering a never-ending extended web of contacts and information. Grace nods. "Ah. I see."

The agitated finger-drumming doesn't cease. "I went to St. Albans to see her last night."

Grace has no intention of making things easy for him so she merely asks, "And…?"

"She's not entirely convinced I've got the right man, either." Grant grimaces and then wryly admits, "Actually, that's a considerable understatement."

"I can imagine," Grace says dryly, the little she knows about the woman in question giving her some idea of just how loud and explosive that conversation must have been.

"Find me a good reason to look seriously at Fuller again." He pushes the sealed brown package that has been lying inconspicuously on the edge of his desk towards her. "Copies of the CCTV from Dagenham. You didn't get them from this office."

Grace puts the package straight into her bag without examining it. She understands the significance of what Grant is doing, knows that he is risking a severe reprimand – or much worse – on little more than a good detective's instinct for when something is not quite right. A touch more than ordinary curiosity makes her ask, "Were you close? You and Jess?"

Grant doesn't look at her as he replies, "Not as close as I probably would have liked back then. But I was a very junior member of her team and she… had someone else."

Of course she did. It's no great secret to anyone. "Boyd."

"Boyd," Grant confirms gruffly. He looks up from his cluttered desk. "By all accounts they used to fight like cat and dog, but who the hell knows what really goes on between two people behind closed doors?" He gazes at her steadily, intently. "Trust me, Doctor Foley, if he _did_ rape and murder Erin Jackson, I'll make sure he's tried and convicted for it, but if he _didn't_…"

"I understand." She prepares to get up.

"One more thing," he says quietly, "you don't have much time. I'm under considerable pressure from above to stop looking too closely at the minor details and get on with charging him. When the press eventually find out that there's a copper involved they're going to have an absolute bloody field day. My Super wants the whole thing sewn-up and handed over to the CPS as quickly as possible. To prevent that from happening I need something concrete, and I need it quickly."

She nods in acknowledgement and then says carefully, "It would be useful to have a copy of Fuller's statement."

"Don't want much do you?" Grant mutters. He sighs. "All right, I'll see what I can do, Doctor, but don't hold your breath."

-oOo-

"This is Heathway at the junction of Broad Street at just past seven," Eve announces, holding out a printed black and white still that quite clearly shows the camera location, date and time as well as the grainy but unmistakable image of Mark Fuller. Grace takes it, studies it for a moment and then silently passes it to Spencer. Eve produces a second sheet of paper. "And _this_ is just outside the tube at Dagenham East at three minutes to eight."

The second image is even clearer than the first. There is no doubt that it shows Fuller outside the station – his face is more than three-quarters visible. No need for any attempt at image-enhancement to confirm his identity. Grace shakes her head. Assuming the CCTV footage is genuine, which after meticulously examining it, Eve resolutely asserts that it is, his presence in both captured stills is completely inexplicable – unless he really _is_ innocent. And if Fuller is innocent…

"What do we notice?" Eve prompts impatiently, as if she can't bear to wait any longer for them to see whatever it is she's already observed.

Spencer takes the second image from Grace. "He's changed his clothes."

"Give that man a cigar."

Once pointed out, the difference between Fuller's attire in the two images is painfully apparent. In the first he is wearing a thick wool sweater and what appear to be scruffy cargo trousers, in the second, a casual padded jacket and dark jeans. It's difficult to miss, but perhaps understandable, given how focused they've naturally been on his face. What his change of clothes means for the investigation is rather less obvious.

"How long from Camden to Dagenham by tube?" Spencer suddenly asks with a frown.

"At least an hour – Northern Line then District."

"None of the timings make sense," Grace says, her clawing frustration ever-increasing. "There he is on Heathway at seven, but even if we _couldn't_ place him there and assumed he was in Camden instead, there's still no way he could have made it back to Dagenham in time to be at the station by eight."

"Not by tube, at least," Spencer agrees morosely.

"What if he took a bus or a cab part of the way for some reason?" Eve suggests.

"Possible. Certainly be much quicker, that time in the morning."

Grace takes both images and places them side by side on the pristine white work surface. "What are we missing? What aren't we seeing?"

"You sound like Boyd."

The words are delivered humorously, presumably without thinking, but they make Grace wince. "Don't."

Eve pulls an apologetic face. "Sorry."

"Plus," Spencer adds, "Fuller would've needed, what, an extra five or ten minutes to get changed somewhere?"

"Changing clothes doesn't make any sense, either," Grace mutters, more to herself than to her colleagues.

Spencer shrugs. "It does if he _did_ kill Erin. The general public are getting more and more forensically aware. Ditch the clothes you were wearing when you committed the offence and hope for the best. We've seen it often enough before."

Eve taps the first image with a black-painted fingernail. "But there he is, large as life, on Heathway at seven, exactly when the neighbours claim they heard shouting from Erin's flat."

"'Claim'?"

"Bad choice of word."

"Besides," Spencer says grimly, "some of the other tenants heard raised voices at exactly the same time."

"How incredibly convenient."

Eve sighs wearily. "Face it, Grace – whichever way you look at it, we're screwed."

Gloomily skulking in the CCU's lab, well-away from Marshall's disapproving gaze, the three of them stare blankly at the captured CCTV images, not knowing what else to say or do.

-oOo-

It's very late for someone to be knocking on the door, Grace thinks with a frown, but whoever her unexpected evening visitor is, they are both impatient and determined. Hurrying to answer the loud summons before the beady-eyed curiosity of her neighbours is aroused, she's fairly sure she knows who she'll find out on the doorstep. Boyd so often works late that it never seems to occur to him that there's very definitely a time beyond which it's considered extremely anti-social to simply turn up at a colleague's home unannounced. More than once she's castigated him for his cavalier attitude towards the kind of social mores that everyone else adheres to without a second thought. Not tonight. Tonight she will welcome him unreservedly, however late the hour is. Still, she is preparing to deliver the traditional stinging rebuke – which he will casually brush aside – as she opens the door.

It's not Boyd looking back at her. In fact, despite a vague nagging sense of familiarity, Grace initially has no idea who her visitor is. Not unnaturally cautious, she eyes the stranger dubiously as she inquires, "Can I help you?"

"I doubt it," the woman on the step replies, "but hopefully I can help _you_, and by extension a mutual friend."

It's the languid, slightly haughty voice Grace finally identifies. Not from a previous personal encounter, but from archive news footage viewed a long, long time ago. The Katherine Reed case, one of the first extremely high-profile re-investigations undertaken by the CCU once the unit's worth had been thoroughly proved. Things start to make a crazy sort of sense. Wheels within wheels. "DI Worrall."

"_Ex_-DI Worrall. They tried hard for a while, but they didn't manage to tempt me back. I have something for you."

Grace steps back, allowing free access to the house. "You'd better come in."

-oOo-


	6. Ancient History

**SIX – Ancient History**

Grace isn't generally given to such fanciful notions, but there is something very definitely feline about Jess Worrall. Something cat-like not just in the way she looks or in the way she moves, but in the intelligent, predatory intensity of her gaze. Bold, feline and just a touch unsettling. It's not difficult to understand Boyd's past interest in her – there is undeniably something about Jess, a bold fearlessness and an abrasive sort of sparkiness, that Grace knows without question would have piqued his interest from the very first meeting. Her age, too, no doubt; the significant age-gap is more than evident, but that doesn't surprise her – after all, Erin Jackson was just thirty-six when she died. The jarring thought brings Grace's attention firmly back to the matter in hand, brings her gaze back to the large unopened envelope lying on the kitchen counter.

Jess puts down the mug of coffee she has been indifferently sipping from. "Do you want my opinion?"

"Of course," Grace says, surprised by the question. "A fresh perspective can sometimes make all the difference, you know that."

"There's something… off… about Fuller's statement. It says everything it needs to say, but absolutely nothing else. It reads exactly like a layman would expect a statement given to the police to read. Take a look."

Grace picks up the envelope. Its weight immediately tells her that it contains far more than just Mark Fuller's statement. She doesn't bother asking for details, merely tears it open and empties the contents onto the tired work surface where so many meals have been prepared. Amongst the blurrily-photocopied pages she finds extracts from the original crime scene report, a grim précis of Erin's post mortem and a raft of miscellaneous associated forms, statements and emails. She looks up questioningly. Jess raises her eyebrows and says nothing. Locating Fuller's statement amongst the disordered papers, Grace puts on her glasses and starts to read. It doesn't take her long to conclude that Jess is right – the statement is clear and informative, but it noticeably lacks both colour and context. There are none of the small, irrelevant details she would usually expect to find in such an account.

"Surprise, surprise," she says dryly when she reaches the end of the second page, "everything he says fits seamlessly with all the evidence."

"Astonishing, isn't it?" Jess responds with undisguised derision. "Kevin's been remarkably lucky. In all the years _I_ spent conducting interviews and taking statements I don't think I ever encountered someone with such an astonishingly clear and concise recall of every single useful detail of what should have been a completely ordinary and uneventful morning. He even conveniently remembers checking his watch just before going into the newsagents."

Grace sighs heavily. "But the fact that it's all a little too perfect doesn't prove anything, does it?"

"Not a damn thing." Jess picks up her coffee again, moves to sit at the small kitchen table. "Suspicious, though, isn't it?"

"Highly." Grace nods soberly. "And if there wasn't clear corroborating evidence, I'd be asking myself whether he religiously learnt the whole thing off by heart or merely rehearsed it in his head until Grant's team came knocking at the door."

"Take a look at the witness statement from the girl who was serving behind the counter in the newsagents."

Frowning, Grace locates the relevant page and does so. It's brief, but in its irrelevant details and slightly meandering tone it reads far more believably than Fuller's precise and near-flawless statement. She looks at Jess, wondering if there is something specific she should have noticed. "And?"

"She doesn't usually work there, she's just filling in for the owner's daughter who's on holiday," Jess informs her. "She'd never seen Fuller in the shop before – as far as she can remember – but she was immediately able to identify him from a photograph because she clearly remembered how angry and indignant he was about nearly being hit by a delivery van that had jumped the lights up the road."

"So…?"

The tone employed for the reply is heavily sardonic. "It's funny, isn't it, how he can distinctly recall glancing at his watch as he reached the newsagents – but apparently doesn't remember almost being run down while trying to cross the road just moments before?"

Grace stares at the younger woman for a moment, her mind racing. The glaring omission is a clear oddity given the detail and clarity of the rest of Fuller's statement about his movements on the morning Erin was murdered. She asks the obvious question: "It was definitely Fuller the girl identified? She was shown the right photograph by Grant's team?"

Jess nods. "Oh yeah. Kevin confirmed that as I was driving over to see you. Besides, he's a good copper – a _very_ good copper – and he wouldn't have allowed anyone to make such an elementary mistake. No, she definitely identified Mark Fuller as the man who came into the shop ranting and raving just after seven."

A heavy pall of despondency is settling over Grace. "So if she's telling the truth – "

"Which I think we can safely say that she is."

" – then our forensics expert is right: the CCTV footage is right and hasn't been tampered with. Fuller was in Dagenham when Erin was murdered."

"Was he." The words are not delivered as a question.

Grace begins to leaf absently through the papers, but she is barely seeing them. Once again, she is running everything that is known about that morning through her mind, searching for something – anything – that they may all have missed. It's as fruitless a task now as it's ever been. However much she wants the truth to be different, the facts remain immutable. Musing aloud, she says, "So, at around seven the neighbours hear a disturbance, at half-past the cleaning woman goes in – why so early?"

The answer is prompt. "She's a foreign student. Does a couple of hours cleaning every morning before college. She'd been doing an hour twice a week at Erin's for the last six months. She was going straight to another flat as soon as she finished there."

Makes sense. "All right. So at seven-thirty she finds Erin dead on the bed and immediately calls the police. At almost exactly the same time Boyd is calling me from Camden Lock and Fuller is in Dagenham."

"It all fits together very neatly, doesn't it?"

It does – but Grace isn't ready to concede. Not to Jess Worrall, not to anyone. Finally joining her at the table she stubbornly says, "But we know Boyd didn't kill her."

"Yes we do," Jess replies. Her gaze is steady and intense. "Why?"

Grace considers the question carefully but eventually has to simply say, "Because we _know_ him. He could no more rape and murder a defenceless young woman than he could fly to the moon. He just doesn't have it in him."

"Good luck trying to sell that to a barrister as a viable defence." The younger woman is silent for several long moments before abruptly asking, "So how is he?"

It's the first time Jess has shown any personal interest in her ex-partner. Grace doubts it's an accidental oversight. She is beginning to suspect that whatever happened between Boyd and Jess all those years ago might not have been as fully resolved during the latter half of the Katherine Reed re-investigation as Boyd has always implied. Not that he's ever had very much to say on the matter, despite some deliberate needling that, in hindsight, Grace isn't particularly proud of. She deliberately keeps her reply neutral. "Boyd? Bearing up, I suppose. I don't think he quite believes any of this is actually happening to him."

"Seems rather… uncharacteristic. The whole one-night-stand thing." It sounds casual, but the cat-like eyes are sharp as they search for answers.

Grace is more than a little surprised by the assessment. "Really?"

"Serial monogamist," Jess says laconically, but she must read something a little sceptical in Grace's expression because she laughs softly. "Oh, I see. He's the arch-philanderer and I'm the Wicked Witch of the West who broke up the happy home, am I right? Except that it was nothing like that."

"None of my business," Grace tells her stoically. It's an effort not to betray her burning curiosity by leaning fractionally towards the younger woman. There's so much she wants to know about Boyd's life prior to their first meeting but she's well-aware that her reasons are far from professional. She won't ask all the questions that are tumbling restlessly through her mind, however much she wants to.

"No?" Jess regards her intently. "I was a DS at Hammersmith. My DI was injured on duty and since we were in the middle of a murder investigation Boyd was hurriedly brought in as a temporary replacement. We got on. Rather well, as it happens."

"You don't have to explain anything to me," Grace tells her. But she wants to know. Oh, yes, she wants to know.

Jess regards her impassively, but there's a telling shrewdness in her gaze that suggests she sees more than Grace is entirely comfortable with. She says, "What tends to get omitted from the story is that Mary had walked out on him months before – just after their son was sent to Feltham on a DTO, in fact." She chuckles briefly and bitterly. "I say 'walked out' but a more accurate description might be 'ran off to Harlow with another man'. But, hey, salacious gossip is always far more fun and much more interesting than the boring truth, eh?"

There's more than a touch of defensive hostility in the other woman's voice. Entirely understandable if her version of the story is the truth and for years she has been unfairly cast in the role of heartless home-wrecker by repeated rumour and exaggeration amongst fellow officers. Grace shakes her head slowly. It's not her place to judge, whatever the true facts. "I prefer not to give too much credence to gossip."

"Good for you." Again, the intent, intelligent gaze seems to look straight into her, searching for answers. "They say you're a very good psychologist, Doctor Foley. One of the very best offender profilers the Home Office currently has at its disposal. Let me give you an imaginary scenario. A man turns up at his girlfriend's flat unexpectedly – maybe he's hoping to surprise her – but as he arrives he sees another man leaving. Understandably angry, he confronts her. They have a row and perhaps she taunts him. He loses his temper and he strangles her. When he realises what's happened, he panics and flees the scene."

After a moment, Grace shakes her head. "No. He doesn't panic."

"Because…?" Jess encourages.

"It wasn't a crime of passion," Grace says slowly. Fragments of thoughts are coalescing, creating a vivid portrait of what could possibly have happened that terrible morning. "Oh, he might have lost his temper for just a moment, but he knew exactly what he was doing when he strangled her. At some point he made a deliberate choice to kill her. It was… punishment. Revenge."

"And once she's dead?"

She can almost picture it. "He quickly tidies up after himself and leaves the flat calmly and quietly. He isn't regretting anything, but killing her wasn't premeditated. He's had no time to prepare so now he's concentrating solely on how best to alibi himself."

"So that…?"

It seems so obvious. Yet Grace knows it's nothing more than supposition. "So that the _other_ man will take the blame for her murder. It's not just about evading arrest himself, it's punishment and revenge again."

Jess nods. For several seconds she remains silent. Just as Grace prepares to speak, she abruptly says, "Peter told you he didn't know she had a partner, didn't he?"

Grace instantly notices the sudden switch from surname to first name, but she wonders if Jess does. "He did. I assume that's more than a lucky guess?"

"He's a percentage player." Jess shrugs almost nonchalantly. "Always has been. By nature he's ruled by his heart not by his head, but he's smart enough to know he can't fight on every front simultaneously so he picks his battles and he does his best to avoid pointless shit where he can. Most notably in his personal life." A pause. "If she'd turned him down, if she'd pissed him off by suddenly saying no, he wouldn't have lost his temper over it; he would've simply quietly walked away licked his wounds in private. Plenty more fish in the sea."

"That was my first thought, too," Grace confirms.

"Fuller's guilty as sin." Jess stands up. "All you really need to do to convince Kevin of that is satisfactorily explain how a man can apparently be in two places at once."

Grace raises her eyebrows. "_I_ do?"

"You, Boyd's team. Whatever."

"While you…?"

Jess smiles grimly and gestures at the contents of the envelope still spread across the counter. "Oh, I think I've done my bit, Doctor. Archaeology really doesn't interest me, and Boyd and I were ancient history a _long_ time ago."

-oOo-

Once again Grace sleeps badly, jagged dreams that are too vivid twisting through her mind only to be replaced by racing thoughts whenever she stirs. She sleeps and she wakes and she sleeps again, a choppy cycle that lasts until the alarm clock by her bed starts to buzz impatiently. Rapidly silencing the unpleasant noise, she turns over onto her back and stares up at the shadowy ceiling. Another day of grinding uncertainty and intense frustration awaits her and she finds herself wondering if she can actually bear it. It's been a long time – a very long time – since Grace found herself facing the working day ahead with such a strong sense of gloomy dread. Even Boyd at his most prickly and intolerant has never left her struggling on a daily basis to summon the energy and willpower required to get on with everything that she is paid extremely well to do.

Fuller killed Erin Jackson. Of course he did. He killed her and he lied not only to cover his tracks but to ensure another man took the blame for her murder. It doesn't matter how difficult it is, or long it takes for Grace to prove it, prove it she damn well will. Because at heart she is just as stubborn as Boyd, and every bit as fierce and tenacious when it comes to defending the people she cares about. It's exactly the incentive she needs to force her from her warm, comfortable bed.

Less than an hour later she is on the verge of leaving the house when the telephone in the hall starts to ring. Early-morning weekday calls are rarely unimportant. She answers quickly. "Grace Foley."

Stella's hushed voice says, "Marshall knows you've been talking to DI Grant."

She frowns. "Of course he does, he knows I went to Camden yesterday to make a formal statement."

"No," Stella insists, "I mean, he knows you've been _talking_ to Grant."

In her sleep-deprived state it takes a moment for comprehension to fully dawn. When it does, it's the very last thing Grace wants to deal with. "How the hell…?"

"No idea, but he's already given Spence a bollocking for getting involved. I thought I'd better warn you."

"Thanks, Stella. I'll be there in half an hour or so." Ending the call, Grace leaves the house briskly, a renewed energy and resilience coursing through her. If years of working with Peter Boyd have taught her anything, it's that conflict isn't only potentially addictive – it can be intensely therapeutic, too. But while conflict with Boyd might have largely become something of a traditional and entertaining sport, with Marshall she's quite happy for it to develop into open warfare.

-oOo-


	7. Shakespeare

**SEVEN – Shakespeare**

Boyd would already have been shouting. That's the thought uppermost in Grace's mind as she sits quietly before Marshall listening as he gives her the kind of sharp but extremely politely-phrased reprimand she hasn't had to endure since the very earliest days of her career. Boyd wouldn't have hidden behind carefully-constructed sentences that manage to simultaneously patronise and castigate, Boyd would simply have bawled her out for flagrantly disobeying his orders and then grudgingly listened to whatever she had to say.

Nor would Boyd have given her a condescending smile and concluded the extended rebuke with, "However, I'm quite sure I can rely on both your common sense and your professional integrity from now on, Doctor Foley."

Her intense dislike of him is growing exponentially. But she smiles sweetly as she says, "Of _course_, Chief Superintendent. You can count on me to do the right thing."

As she expects, he misses the deliberate undertone in her voice completely. He nods in a self-satisfied sort of way as if he believes he has the upper hand. "Good. Until the current situation is resolved no-one from the CCU – _including_ you – is to have any further informal contact with DI Grant or any member of his investigative team." He shrugs as he continues, "From what I hear the whole unfortunate matter is very close to being concluded anyway. Once Boyd has been charged he will immediately be officially and permanently relieved of command. Between you and me, I don't think you'll have to wait long for the appointment of a new senior officer and once he – or she – is in place I'm sure the resulting stability will be very good for everyone in this unit."

It's difficult to control the surge of anger and contempt that rises in her, but she just about manages it. This is not the time or place. But she's not going to let him walk away from the encounter completely unscathed. Grace has something of a history of boldly facing up to far more intimidating characters than William Marshall – including the rightful occupant of this very office. She is not afraid to pointedly ask, "And if Boyd _isn't_ charged?"

He scowls darkly in response. "As I've said before, Doctor, your loyalty is admirable, but I really think it's time you faced up to the unpalatable truth. Peter Boyd has been a potentially dangerous loose cannon for years, and there are a good many people in the higher echelons of the Yard who are merely surprised that it's taken quite this long for that notorious temper of his to result in a calamity of this nature."

Grace doesn't flinch. "And yet he was considered suitable to command – and to _continue_ to command – the CCU."

He continues to glower at her. "As I'm _sure_ you're aware, it was never originally envisioned that this unit would enjoy the longevity that it has. Nor that Boyd's tenure would last _quite_ so long."

"Controversial unit, controversial commander."

Marshall nods stiffly. "Quite. I don't think it's any great secret that the general idea was to tuck him quietly away in the archives where he couldn't get into too much trouble and for the Yard to reap the rewards of anything he actually managed to achieve."

She smiles triumphantly, smugly. "It's a great shame they vastly underestimated him, isn't it?"

He glares bleakly at her from the other side of Boyd's desk. "Let's not forget that the greatest tragedy is _not_ Boyd's spectacular self-destruction but the brutal and unnecessary death of a bright and successful young woman who should still be alive today."

Grace holds his formidable gaze fearlessly. "He didn't kill her."

It seems Marshall is not prepared to let her have the last word. "Whether you like it or not, Doctor, I fear that sooner or later you're going to have no choice but to accept that he _did_."

-oOo-

Once her anger and indignation have subsided a little, it is Eve she seeks out. Despite their many differences – not least in age and general outlook – they have always had a good working relationship, and as time has passed they have established an increasingly close personal rapport that Grace likes to think they both value highly. Happy to embrace the relative peace of the lab after her prickly and frustrating meeting with Marshall, she waits until Eve has finished whatever it is she is doing before she bluntly asks, "Am I making a complete fool of myself, Eve? You warned me not to let the fact that it's Boyd blind me to the truth."

Straightening up, Eve pushes her hands into the pockets of her crumpled white lab coat. "I'm a scientist, Grace. I only deal in provable facts."

"What about gut instinct?"

"It's an important tool, but largely worthless without substantiation. That's just my personal opinion."

Grace leans against the stainless steel autopsy table – thankfully currently unoccupied. She is tired, she is stressed and despite her earlier resolve she's beginning to seriously doubt herself. Wearily, she says, "Until yesterday I didn't think I had a single ally outside this team. Now it seems that I have, but nothing's become any clearer. I'm still staring at the same brick wall as I was before."

"We all are, Grace. You're not the only one who wants to help but keeps getting absolutely nowhere."

"Maybe we've been wrong all along. Maybe Boyd _did_ kill her."

"You don't believe that for a moment."

Grace sighs. "No, you're right, I don't. But... Oh, Eve… I just don't know. Did he do it?"

Eve shrugs and gives her a cool, appraising look. "If you're asking me as a scientist, then I can only say that at this point that can't be conclusively proved or disproved. Not forensically, not from the evidence available. In cases like this it always comes down to a balance of probability thing, doesn't it?"

"Probability or _improbability_."

"What?"

"Something Boyd said the other night," Grace tells her. A brief, gloomy silence falls over the lab.

Eve tilts her head slightly. "So, how's he handling all this?"

"Exactly the way you'd expect – with an obstinate mixture of defiance and denial."

"Doesn't sound healthy."

Grace shakes her head. "It's not. Coming so soon after Luke's death… Well, whatever the outcome, this could have a catastrophic effect on him. Psychologically."

"Emotionally, he's a lot tougher than you think."

"Instinct?"

"Observation." Eve looks at her calmly for a moment before continuing, "I don't mean this unkindly, Grace, but in a lot of ways you _are_ blind when it comes to Boyd. Perhaps that's not quite the right word. What I mean is, you have such a strong image of him – of _who_ and _what_ he is – that I think you sometimes have trouble seeing beyond your own construct. Does that make sense?"

It does. And it stings. Her impulse is to angrily bite back in defence, but the way Eve is watching her so calmly and yes, so kindly, stops her. Instead, she says wryly, "Do you want my job?"

"Sorry." A pause. "It's not necessarily a bad thing, you know. Having so much faith in someone."

"I just _know_ him, Eve," she says with a sigh. "Yes, I've seen him do some truly appalling things over the years, but never without what could be termed good reason. You've seen him dealing with victims – you'd be hard-pressed to find a gentler, more compassionate man."

"I've also seen him dealing with uncooperative suspects."

Grace gazes straight at her colleague. "But Erin wasn't an 'uncooperative suspect', was she?"

Eve doesn't answer for a moment. When she does, there is conviction in her voice. "For what it's worth, no, I don't think he killed her. I just wish I could find a way to categorically prove it."

"You and me both, Eve."

Eve moves to stand by the nearest ventilation grille. Producing a cigarette packet and a lighter from her lab coat pockets, she says glumly, "It's weird without him, isn't it? Too quiet."

"_Much_ too quiet. Last time I saw Frankie she told me it took her months to get used to working somewhere quiet where there was no-one shouting and stamping about angrily quoting Shakespeare."

Eve lights a cigarette and inhales deeply. "Shakespeare?"

"Long story." Something clicks in Grace's head. A blinding moment of absolute clarity. She stares blankly at Eve, her mind suddenly racing. "_Shakespeare_."

"What?"

"_Twelfth Night_." She desperately searches her memory, trying to recall details of characters and plots long-forgotten since school days. Not _The Tempest_, Boyd's former standby in moments of frustration and pressure but… She almost snaps her fingers. "_The Comedy of Errors_."

The look of polite bemusement falls away from Eve's face to be replaced with a clear mixture of incredulity and sudden appreciation. "Oh my God…"

-oOo-

"Twins," Eve confirms looking up from her computer screen. "Gary John and Mark Vincent Fuller, born in Stratford, London, April 'seventy-two. No record here of whether they're dizygotic or monozygotic – fraternal or identical – of course, but…"

"'When you have eliminated the impossible…'" Grace quotes quietly. "_That's_ how one man can apparently be in two places at once."

"And that's why when he gave his statement Mark seemingly didn't remember nearly being hit by the van that morning – it wasn't _him_ at the newsagents, it was _Gary_."

Looking over Eve's shoulder at the official birth records on display, Grace feels a spike of angry frustration. Such a ludicrously obvious possibility… "Why the hell didn't we consider it before?"

"Because, outside of cheap thrillers and the works of Shakespeare, it's completely bloody implausible," Eve says dryly. She shakes her head. "And you can't really blame Grant's team for failing to pick it up, either – there was absolutely no reason for them to look into Mark's family tree."

"Basic background information."

"Right, because of course we _always_ check details like that…"

"We do with firm suspects," Grace says obstinately.

"Not _initially_, and anyway, Mark was eliminated as a serious suspect almost straight away, wasn't he?"

There's no point in continuing to argue. She may not like it, but Grace knows Eve has a fair point. Grudgingly, she returns her attention to what's actually important. "So Mark didn't change his clothes after all – it was his _brother_ who was caught on CCTV on Heathway at seven."

Eve nods. "So, do we assume that on the way back to Dagenham from Erin's flat Mark calls Gary and asks – "

They are interrupted by Spencer's sudden arrival at the inner door to the lab. His expression is tense, his voice hard. "Boyd never showed up at Greenwich nick this afternoon. They sent a couple of uniforms round to his house immediately, but he was long-gone."

"Christ, so he's breached his bail conditions," Eve says unnecessarily. "What happens now?"

"_Now_ there's a full-on manhunt," Spencer replies. Grace does not meet his eye as he continues, "It'll be all over the bloody papers by the morning – unless _someone_ can find him quick, and then persuade him to give himself up."

"Go," Eve instructs, turning towards Grace. She gestures towards the door. "I'll bring Spence up to speed."

"Call Grant," Grace tells her, already in motion, "tell him to call off the dogs."

"We will. Go _on_, Grace, get out of here before Marshall finds out what the hell's going on."

-oOo-

Only when she has left the grim building that houses the CCU's headquarters a good distance behind her does Grace park her car and fumble in her bag for her phone. She is hoping – _praying_ – that Boyd has not disposed of the cheap non-contract phone he has been using to contact her since his initial release from custody. She's not sure which of them he imagined he was protecting by using an anonymous, disposable number, but it hardly matters now. She fervently hopes, too, that if he still has the phone he will actually answer it when he sees her number on the display. It's not a foregone conclusion by any means.

He answers within three rings. "Grace."

There are many things she wants to say to him, not all of them polite, and several of them are to do with the stupidity of violating his bail conditions, but she knows how important it is to engage him and engage him quickly. She doesn't waste time with censure or unnecessary words. "Mark Fuller's a twin. He has a brother."

The silence that greets the news is absolute. Then he asks, "Fraternal or identical?"

"We don't know yet. Eve's on it. Boyd, they're already looking for you; you have to hand yourself in."

"No."

She didn't expect anything else. He's both incredibly stubborn and very difficult to reason with. "Running away is not the answer."

"I'm not running away," Boyd says, his voice weary but surprisingly calm, "I'm simply changing the odds in my favour."

A frightening possibility occurs to her. He is rightly notorious for playing by his own rules even in the most hazardous of situations. Involuntarily tightening her grip on her phone, Grace says, "Please don't tell me you're going after Fuller? DI Grant's team will be picking him up at any moment – him _and_ his brother."

"It doesn't matter."

The hollow, fatalistic note in his voice worries her. Scares her, even, knowing his limitless capacity for gloomy, guilt-ridden introspection. Presuming from his downbeat reaction that he's not going after Mark Fuller, she immediately demands, "What do you mean? Boyd, this is the improbability we were looking for. The obvious explanation of how one man can apparently be in two places at once."

"Call me cynical," his voice says dryly in her ear, "but I'm pretty sure a jury would laugh that particular hypothesis straight out of court."

"It's not a _hypothesis_, it's an absolute _fact_. Mark Fuller has a twin brother." She glares angrily into the mid-distance. "Boyd, this could break his alibi."

"'Could'."

"Call Grant," Grace says urgently, "ask him to meet you somewhere before it's too late."

She hears his derisive snort. "Not a very appealing idea."

"If you run – "

"I told you," Boyd interrupts tetchily, "I'm _not_ running. I just woke up this morning and realised that I was sick and tired of playing a game that's been so heavily stacked against me from the start. So I'm simply choosing to stop playing. On my own terms."

An icy chill runs down her spine. There's a dark trace of something beneath the words that she doesn't like. Not one little bit. Instinct tells her to keep him talking for as long as possible. "What do you mean?"

"You know as well as I do what happens to convicted sex offenders in prison, Grace. I assume you also know what happens to disgraced police officers?"

She does. If convicted, the very best Boyd could realistically hope for would be to serve out his entire sentence segregated from the rest of the prison population. And even then she seriously doubts his jailers could be trusted to guarantee – or even to _attempt_ to guarantee – his safety. It won't come to that. It can't. "Boyd – "

His voice is steady, devoid of fear, of anything. "Goodbye, Grace."

"Don't do this," she pleads, the raw, frightened note in her voice unpleasantly strident. "Please don't do this. _Peter_ – "

But suddenly Grace can hear nothing but empty silence.

-oOo-


	8. Fugitive

**EIGHT – Fugitive**

It's far too obvious, but with no real alternative, she heads for Shooters Hill Road and Greenwich Cemetery. Normally, Boyd would unquestionably be far too wary and wily to retreat to somewhere so recently, publicly and painfully linked to him, but as far as Grace is aware there's simply nowhere else that would draw him more powerfully; despite everything, she thinks there's a faint chance that that he's not thinking clearly enough to resist the gloomy siren song of the place. On arrival, however, she hopes that he is. He needs to voluntarily hand himself over to Grant, not be hunted down and detained, and there are two uniformed police officers standing together not far from the main gate. Although they look thoroughly bored and disenchanted with their current assignment, she suspects they're quite alert enough to spot Boyd should he risk making an appearance. They pay her no heed, though, and she is very quickly advancing along the upper path that cuts neatly through the massed ranks of headstones. As she walks she sees at least one more uniform, and a couple of keen-eyed young men in sober suits who somehow just aren't quite managing to look like anything _but_ police officers.

Locating Luke Boyd's grave is not quite as easy as she expects, despite her enduring memory of his quiet, solemn burial. Several plots that were empty then have been filled now, but eventually Grace finds the too-recently erected stone. It stands out boldly once she spots it, not in form but in its unweathered, pristine sharpness. _Beloved Son_, reads the simple epitaph, and she knows without question that he was. Troubled, maybe, and rebellious, and wild, but loved far more than he apparently ever fully-comprehended in his short, turbulent life. By both his grieving parents, whatever their personal differences.

The light is fading. It won't be fully dark for a while yet, but the evening and the long night beyond it are relentlessly drawing in. With a last look at the simple headstone, Grace firmly turns her back, finds her phone and once again redials the now-familiar number. It doesn't surprise her at all that eventually it's the automated answering service that responds, a bland, anonymous female voice politely instructing her to leave a recorded message – and this time she does. She says, "I'm standing beside Luke's grave. Call me back, Boyd, please. For _his_ sake, if not your own."

It's a cheap trick, bitterly unfair, and Grace knows it, but it might just work. She hasn't worked alongside Boyd for years without learning his Achilles' Heel. Oh, he certainly has other pressure points that can be successfully prodded and pried, but it's his lost son and all the complicated and contradictory emotions surrounding not only the manner of his death but the grim nature of the last few years of his life that are by far the weakest chinks in Boyd's formidable defensive armour. Grace is not proud of exploiting them, but she's so genuinely afraid for him now that she determinedly tells herself that at least on this occasion the ends certainly justify the means.

It takes several long and tense minutes of waiting but eventually her phone dutifully rings. She answers with, "Both of the Fullers have been taken in for questioning."

But Boyd is not listening. His words are a bitter, angry snarl: "Don't you _dare_ use my boy to try to manipulate me, Grace."

"Then _listen_ to me," she all-but shouts back at him, fear and frustration fuelling her temper. "If you don't hand yourself over to Grant's team, and soon, by the morning your face will be plastered all over the papers. It won't matter if they go on to charge Fuller, you'll always be the copper who was arrested for rape and murder and then jumped bail. Is that _really_ what you want?"

"I'm not risking going to prison for something I didn't do," he growls back, but there's just the tiniest hint of hesitancy in his voice, as if her words have actually struck home.

"You have to trust us," she implores, trying to press home her advantage before it's too late. "Please, Boyd – you have to trust _me_."

The reply is silence. Silence that is eventually broken by an altogether less assertive, "I just… I don't know what to do, Grace. Nothing about this makes any bloody sense anymore."

She takes a calming breath. It's possible she's finally getting through to him, possible that he is actually prepared to start listening to her. But she's aware that the moment is a fragile one, easily thrown away. Even at the best of times he is temperamental and highly-strung, unpredictable in his reactions to things. Cautiously finding her way around the raw edges of his temper she asks as gently as she can, "Where are you, Peter?"

But there's a renewed note of conviction in his voice as he responds, "I can't tell you that."

Grace is not the sort of woman who gives in easily. Ever. If she was, she wouldn't have remained at the CCU for so many years. There are many considerably easier career opportunities available for a psychologist of her skill and experience, even at her age. "Please. Let me come and talk to you, face-to-face."

"So you can call the cavalry and tell them where to find me?" Boyd mocks harshly, the moment of indecisiveness now apparently lost for good. "No, I don't think so."

Her heart starts to pound angrily at the cruel injustice of the accusation. _How dare he…_ "Is that what you really think? Do you actually believe I'd do something like that? How long have we known each other, Boyd? How often have I loyally stood by you regardless of my personal views on whatever it was you'd done – or been _accused_ of doing?"

"Grace – "

"_No_," she snaps angrily. Maybe Eve is right, maybe Boyd is nowhere near as emotionally fragile as she sometimes likes to think. Though… perhaps he currently is. Perhaps for once he really is frighteningly lost and vulnerable and it is fear more than anger making him lash out at her. It doesn't stop her furiously challenging, "Either you trust me or you _don't_. Which is it?"

The answer is a silence, a sigh and then a quiet, defeated, "I trust you."

The Pyrrhic victory gives Grace absolutely no satisfaction. "Then tell me where you are."

-oOo-

The iron park gates are securely locked against the darkness. Not uncommon in an urban area like this one where personal safety is generally deemed to be a public concern rather than a private matter of straightforward common-sense. Beyond the park to the west is the gloomy decayed majesty of Highgate Cemetery, to the east, just a short walk away… Grace doesn't want to think about that. She knows this area of London well enough for her stomach to have lurched involuntarily when Boyd grudgingly agreed to meet her at Waterlow Park. Standing uselessly by the locked gates, she looks up and down the deceptively quiet tree-lined stretch of road. No sign of him. She can hear the traffic out on Highgate Hill and beyond, but there's little immediate local noise and movement, just the occasional car and cyclist.

A good Catholic girl would be praying, she thinks suddenly. But she is not a girl – very far from it – and as for the rest… well, it's been years since Grace gave too much serious thought to the faith of her childhood. No, prayer is not the answer. Though as the minutes tick slowly past and she grows more and more restless, the idea stubbornly starts to take root in the back of her mind. Thoughts of St Jude, patron saint of desperation and lost causes, start to creep up on her and though she irritably shakes them off as just foolish superstition, something inside her that is deeper and stronger than political indoctrination, scientific uncertainty or fashionable scepticism continues to nag insistently at her.

Boyd abruptly comes into view, walking quickly and determinedly with his head well down. The surge of relief Grace feels is indescribable. She starts towards him, speeding the increasing narrowing of the gap separating them, and he lifts his head immediately, as if somehow sensing rather than seeing or hearing her presence. They gaze cautiously at each other as they both continue to advance and then they halt instinctively, simultaneously, maybe only three or four feet of space between them. Pointlessly, she gestures to her left and says, "The park's locked."

He grunts noncommittally. "Where's your car?"

"Further down the road." Grace studies him quickly, intensely, trying to judge his mood, trying to predict exactly what he intends to do next. Superficially he doesn't look any more or less unkempt than he was the last time she saw him, but the shadows in his eyes seem much deeper and his expression is visibly more haunted. She is struck by a strong, inappropriate urge to simply put her arms round him and hold onto him as tightly and protectively as she can until all his hurt and confusion fades. But she doesn't. Of course she doesn't. Carefully, she asks, "Why? Do you want to go somewhere else?"

"No." His shoulders are hunched, his head held low again. "You wanted to talk, so talk."

She starts with her unofficial meeting with Grant and ends with her rapid departure from the CCU's headquarters, telling him everything as quickly and briefly as she can. She tells him about Jess Worrall, about the statement from the girl in the newsagents; she tells him about Gary Fuller who lives just two streets away from his brother in Dagenham, and she tells him how Grant's men picked up both brothers only twenty minutes after their boss received an urgent telephone call from Spencer Jordan. As Grace speaks she watches the way he listens to her words – the disinterested, melancholy manner in which he absorbs everything she says. It's not encouraging. Finally she offers, "Maybe Gary didn't even know what he was agreeing to when Mark asked him to tell him exactly where he'd been and what he'd done that morning. Maybe he was a completely unsuspecting alibi until it was too late."

"Maybe."

"Covering up for murder isn't like helping your brother to beat a parking fine, is it?" she presses, not liking his apparent indifference, his uncharacteristic lack of interest.

"No. No, it's not." Boyd looks straight at her. He shrugs. "But, as they say, blood is thicker than water. Unless Gary cracks and tells the truth – or Mark confesses – all you've actually got between you is just a not-quite-impossible but nevertheless highly unlikely theory."

Not for the first time, his hard-headed obstinacy frustrates and infuriates her. She doesn't understand why he can't seem to see that for the first time there is real hope that they will be able to exonerate him. More aggressively than she intends, she asks, "Come on, Boyd – where's your fighting spirit?"

"It's been thoroughly knocked out of me," he says, and to her surprise he smiles slightly. It's not a happy smile. Far from it. It's the defeated but oddly gentle smile of a man who has finally been pushed just a little too far. "Don't think I don't appreciate everything you – and everyone else – has tried to do, Grace. I'm immensely grateful, really, I am, but…"

There's something in his eyes… something that is wistful and resigned, and terribly, terribly calm. Something that has seen beyond all the tangled threads of his current predicament, beyond all the pain and regret that's been torturing him for months; something that has looked over the edge of the frightening precipice and seen unexpected peace. She can see it in him quite clearly – and it petrifies her. Grace takes a single step towards him. She knows. It's more than just the carefully-chosen location, more than intuition or mere experience. She just _knows_. And she is prepared to dig in and fight to the bitter end if that's what it takes to stop him. She stares straight at him and says evenly, "Forget it. I'm not going to let you jump off Hornsey Lane Bridge, Boyd."

He smiles again, just very briefly, confirming her fear. "Ah, Grace… You always did know me _far_ too well."

She ignores the icy, frightened shivers that are rapidly and repeatedly traversing her spine. "I _mean_ it. It's not an option. It's a ridiculous, pointless and completely bloody selfish idea."

"Don't turn this into high drama," he warns quietly. "Go back to your car. Call Grant and tell him where to find me if you want to; I don't actually care anymore."

Fear drives the blistering anger behind, "So that's it, is it? Peter Boyd's final bloody-minded act of defiance? Screw the world and everyone in it?"

"I'm tired," he says softly. "Don't you understand? I'm tired of fighting, tired of hurting; tired of being lonely and alone. Everything has its time, Grace. I don't have the stomach to face losing yet another battle."

"Oh, I see – this has all been about Luke from the very beginning, hasn't it?" she challenges, desperate to keep him talking.

His expression hardens instantly. "I warned you – _don't_ bring him into this."

But Grace isn't ready to stop. Doesn't think she could stop even if she wanted to. "Why not? It's the truth, after all. Luke's death is the reason you've been drinking too much, the reason you've been recklessly jumping into bed with women you've only just met, the reason – "

"Enough!" Boyd growls at her, his head lifting, and for the first time that evening she sees a true glimpse of the fiery, volatile man she knows so well. In the pale, drawn face the dark eyes are suddenly blazing. "What the hell makes you think you can set yourself up in judgement over me?"

It takes more courage and willpower than Grace thinks she has to stand her ground, to weather his rage and say quietly, "Your son is dead, Boyd, but that's _not_ a reason to destroy yourself. You're not thinking straight. Any psychologist would be able to tell you that you're – "

She's gone too far. He steps towards her, a single quick and angry pace, but instead of the physical blow that she suddenly half-fears, he roars into her face, "Has it ever occurred to you, _Doctor_, that when I was going through the very worst days of my fucking life that just for once – just for _once_ – I might have desperately needed a bloody _friend_ not a damned psychologist?"

The violent, hurt-filled words tear bloodily through her, leaving her stunned and almost physically breathless. There is an accusatory savagery in him that mercilessly cuts into her, a viciousness that leaves her reeling. So much rage, so much resentment; so much pain. His name is a broken whisper of guilt and defeat on her lips. "Peter…"

And then the night fractures into dramatic splinters of wailing sirens and strobing blue lights.

-oOo-

Grace is not given to profanity by nature, not even after years of working alongside some very tough and streetwise detectives, but there is heartfelt venom in the way she spits, "You _bastard_."

But Marshall remains totally imperturbable. "You were given enough warnings, Doctor Foley. All of which it seems you chose to completely ignore."

Beyond him, beyond the handful of uniformed officers still milling around, Boyd is no longer fighting. Hands securely cuffed behind his back, he is being forcibly marched towards a marked police car by two burly men, one of whom Grace recognises as Grant's sergeant, David Powell – the man who chatted amiably to her about his children and offered to make her coffee just the day before while she waited to speak to his superior. He doesn't look so amiable now, not with blood caked around his nose and splashes of it staining his white shirt, but to his credit, although he is grim-faced, there doesn't seem to be any unnecessary roughness in the way he and his colleague are firmly manhandling their sullen prisoner.

She glares furiously at Marshall. "You had _no_ right."

"On the contrary," he counters smoothly, "I had _every_ right. I think you'll find it was your work phone that I had traced, a phone that belongs to the Metropolitan Police, and given that you left the building without authority…"

"You bastard," she says again, but more matter-of-factly this time. "And what if you'd been wrong? What if I'd simply gone home early with a headache?"

He regards her coolly from beneath the silver-trimmed peak of his uniform cap. "Rather irrelevant now, don't you think? You should be pleased – you have, after all, been instrumental in the successful detention of an absconded murder suspect."

"When Fuller's brother talks and Boyd is released," she says quietly, "I hope you're the very first person he comes looking for. And I hope he does a damn sight more than simply headbutt you in the face."

"Peter Boyd is an animal," he replies with just a trace of a sneer, "a mad dog who should have been relieved of duty and subsequently removed from the Force _years_ ago. You seem completely unable to comprehend the scale of the carnage and chaos he routinely leaves in his wake, Doctor, and for that reason alone I find I have serious reservations about your suitability to continue in your role as a police consultant."

The urge to slap him is immense. What stops her, she's not quite sure. Instead, Grace shakes her head. "Then it's a bloody good thing for me that nothing about my _role_ has anything to do with you, isn't it?"

"Rest assured," he says portentously, "I will be making appropriate recommendations in my forthcoming report to the DAC regarding the CCU and its personnel."

"Oh, I'm quite sure you will," she mutters. Less than thirty feet away, Boyd is being none-too-gently bundled into the back of the waiting police car. He doesn't look in her direction. Not even once.

-oOo-


	9. Ego

**NINE – Ego**

Her thoughts far too anxious and restless, Grace barely sleeps and when the first grey hint of dawn appears she is inordinately grateful. She follows her usual morning routine mechanically and it isn't until she is confronting her weary reflection in the bedroom mirror that her self-control cracks a little. Exhausted, angry tears well in her eyes and though she tries to furiously blink them away the painful conflict of emotions that cause them remains. She looks at herself for a long, long time, mercilessly documenting the very worst of what she sees, ruthlessly cataloguing every last harsh sign of age and fatigue. Boyd's words from the night before come back to her, echoing hollowly through her mind – _"Everything has its time, Grace…"_

It's time to close one chapter of her life and start another. The realisation comes more calmly than she might ever have expected. She will resign with dignity before she is militantly pushed out by forces beyond her control. Even if they subsequently ask her to stay – which she doubts – she has no wish to continue at the CCU under a new commander. She fully expects Boyd to be completely cleared of any involvement in Erin Jackson's murder, for him to walk free before the days is done, but she seriously doubts that after yet another major controversy he will be returned to the CCU by his masters at New Scotland Yard. They will find a space for him somewhere and leave him to pointlessly kick his heels well away from harm until he resigns in sheer frustration or finally reaches mandatory retirement age. Either way, given his evident resentment towards her, Grace is fairly sure their… association… has reached its natural end. Whether she is right or wrong, she can't stop bitterly telling herself that despite everything she has failed him in the worst possible way – not as a colleague but as a friend.

She is listlessly making coffee when the telephone rings, her mind still gloomily picking over the bones of the previous night. It's still very early, but when she answers it is Grant's voice that immediately says, "Doctor Foley. We're going to be interviewing both the Fullers again this morning. I thought you'd want to know."

Trying to shrug off the worst of her increasingly despondent mood, she asks, "They didn't talk last night?"

"Mark insisted on having a solicitor present," he says derisively, "and we were subsequently advised that continuing to interview him overnight would be… imprudent."

"Playing it by the book, eh?"

"I think we both know it's a bit late for that," he admits wryly, "but if we're seen to be playing by the rules…"

Mentally steeling herself for the answer, Grace reluctantly inquires, "How's Boyd?"

Grant snorts. "Uncommunicative. It wouldn't be a good idea for me to tell you much more than that. Look, we might need to go over your statement again later this morning."

She nearly groans. "Again? For heaven's sake, I've already told you the little I know – twice."

"Grace," he says gently, inexplicably using her first name, "do you _want_ to be here today, or not…?"

-oOo-

Grant's sergeant, Powell, has two spectacular black eyes in addition to an obviously swollen nose but he seems good-natured enough as he politely escorts Grace to a small interview room at the rear of the building. Feeling the need to apologise on Boyd's behalf and darkly cursing herself for it, she says, "I'm sorry about last night. He can be a little… hot-headed."

Powell regards her with a distinctly wry expression. "He's a tough old bugger, I'll give him that. Certainly got some fight in him."

Grace is absurdly pleased to hear it. Taking a seat, she asks, "Are the Fullers here yet?"

He folds his arms and shakes his head solemnly. "I really don't think I can tell you that they are, Doctor. I _definitely_ can't tell you that Mark's firmly sticking to his story but it's obvious that Gary's shit-scared."

"I appreciate that you can't tell me that," Grace deadpans. She's about to say more when the interview room door opens and Grant strides in. He nods briskly to his sergeant who immediately withdraws. Grace raises her eyebrows questioningly. "Well?"

He says, "Gary's adamantly refusing to say a word about his brother, but he's a smart enough cookie to know when he's screwed. Seems brotherly love only stretches so far – he won't tell us that he gave Mark the same information, but he _has_ detailed every step of his movements that morning, including going into the newsagents and ranting and raving about the van driver who nearly hit him."

It's something, but it's not enough. She unconsciously picks at the worn leather strap of her bag. "And Mark?"

Grant sits down opposite her. He rubs his temples slowly. "Still says _he_ was the one who went into the shop. His brief's saying Mark only didn't mention the van incident in his original statement because at the time he thought it was completely irrelevant. So now I have identical twins both claiming to have been in exactly the same place at exactly the same time and apparently no way of determining which of them's lying."

"Mark."

"_Obviously_ Mark, but getting a jury to buy that… We're not out of the woods yet, Doctor, not by any means."

Grace stares at the utilitarian table in front of her for a moment, trying to completely clear her mind. She thinks about Mark Fuller, about everything she's read about him, everything she's heard about him, and she tries to build a solid picture of what kind of man he really is. She sifts through her memory, too, searching for significant similarities with other suspected offenders she's encountered. She's barely aware of Grant watching her until she says slowly, "He's a narcissistic personality. Mark. If you can prove to him beyond any doubt that you've absolutely got him, he'll almost certainly make a full confession. If he thinks the game's up, he'll fall back on bragging about just how clever he's been, how he almost got away with it."

Grant looks dubious. "Intuition or experience?"

"Both," she tells him. Her mind is working very quickly now, picking up speed, making sense of complex patterns of behaviour. "He needs to feel superior. At the moment he's getting that from knowing that if he sticks to his guns there's very little you can do, but if he realises he isn't out-smarting you anymore, he'll need to find another way to feed that need. Flatter him, make him feel like he's something special, then hit him with everything you can. His own ego will leave him no choice but to re-focus. He'll tell you everything just to keep proving that he's smart."

He still looks sceptical. To say the least. "And you can guarantee that, can you?"

Grace shakes her head. "No. I can only give you the benefit of my opinion as an experienced forensic psychologist."

"All right." Grant stands up. "Anything's worth a try, I suppose. We're so close to nailing the bastard… but if we can't convince him that we've got him…"

An unexpected flash of inspiration strikes. "Have you got the CCTV from the crossing?"

He nods. "Of course, but it doesn't prove anything. Trust me, it could still be either of them."

"Ask Mark what colour the van was. Ask them _both_. Only one of them will have to make a blind guess."

Grant blinks. Then he smiles in appreciation. "I think I'm beginning to understand why the CCU's been so successful over the years. Don't suppose you fancy coming to work for me in CID, do you, Doctor?"

She smiles wearily back at him. "Trust me, Detective Inspector, you couldn't afford me."

-oOo-

"I'm sorry, Doctor," Powell says, and from the sincerity in his expression she thinks that he genuinely is. He shrugs a little helplessly, "Even if I could somehow manage to quietly arrange it, he won't talk to you. He's not talking to anyone, including that damn brief of his."

"Tomlinson." She sighs heavily, dejectedly. The waiting is bad enough without having to endure all the tormenting thoughts that keep running through her mind. If she's wrong about Fuller, if she's misjudged him… It's hard to comprehend how so very much could be won or lost on something as trivial as the colour of a perfectly ordinary delivery van. One tiny, initially utterly insignificant detail that could make or break an entire criminal case. If Fuller doesn't give way, if his ego doesn't push him into the confession Grant needs…

There will still be reasonable doubt, that's what Grace defiantly tells herself. Enough doubt to prevent Boyd being charged while every tiny detail of that fateful morning is minutely checked and rechecked from every possible angle. Time for more evidence to be discovered, perhaps. Maybe even time for a new witness to come forward, or for Boyd to somehow prove his innocence another way.

Boyd. She desperately wants to see him, to talk to him, if only to refute the stark look of betrayal she saw in his eyes in the split second before he bolted away from the police officers closing on him. She knows – without question – that in that moment he honestly believed she was responsible, that _she_ had set the dogs on him. Part of her wonders if she'll ever be able to forgive him for that. Or ever be able to forgive _herself_ for making the elementary mistake that allowed Marshall to locate them.

Powell says, "It's probably the shock, Doctor. I guess you already know that, being a psychologist. It's difficult for anyone, this kind of thing, but in my experience coppers always make very bad prisoners – whether they're guilty or not. If it was _my_ Super in there… Christ, I can't imagine how he'd react."

She sighs. "It's not just all this. There are… other factors."

"Yeah, I know. His kid. We were told by… someone… to put a watch on the cemetery."

"Marshall."

Powell doesn't give her a direct answer, just says, "He's a bit of a bastard that one, by all accounts. Pardon my French."

"Oh, don't mind me, Sergeant. That's _exactly_ what I called him last night. To his face."

Powell grins fleetingly in response. "Good for you."

She says reflectively, "The worst thing is, I don't even think it's personal."

"It's not," Powell gruffly replies. He lowers his voice, as if he imagines they might be overheard. "Way I heard it, he overstepped the mark once too often. Severely pissed off someone with some pretty influential friends, if you get my drift. That's why they were able to draft him in to oversee your lot at such short notice – it was that or garden leave."

"So that's what this has been all about. Trying to get himself back into the Yard's good books."

Powell nods. "That's what my boss reckons. Just between you and me."

It makes sense. Still, as much as Grace dislikes him and holds him directly responsible for the previous night's debacle, William Marshall is not currently her primary concern. She studies Powell for a moment before asking, "Do you think there's any way you could get me in to see him? Just for a couple of minutes?"

"DSI Boyd? I'm sorry. If I honestly thought he'd talk to you, I'd take the risk and see what I could do, but…"

Suddenly feeling very old and utterly defeated, Grace shakes her head slowly. "Well, that's that, then, isn't it? I might as well go home and leave you all to it. I've done absolutely everything I can."

Powell looks at her in silence for a moment. Under the harsh artificial lights the dark bruising to his face looks even worse and he now has the air of a man who is definitely not having the best day of his life. He clears his throat. "If anyone can get the truth out of Fuller, my guv'nor can. He's in there with him right now and believe me, he won't give up. You just need to sit tight for a bit longer, Doctor, that's all."

"I don't think there's much point," Grace tells him. Suddenly she's had enough. Had enough of _all_ of it. Including Boyd and his idiotic, unfair stubbornness. She gets wearily to her feet, "I assume I'm free to leave?"

"Of course," Powell confirms with a nod.

She's about to ask him to escort her back to the public area of the building when the interview room door opens. It's Grant. And he is smiling. The muscles in her stomach clench momentarily. She doesn't need to ask the question. Grant is not just smiling, he's beaming. "Congratulations, Doctor. You were right on the money about Fuller. We have a full confession."

Relief pours into Grace so quickly that she feels light-headed. She clutches the edge of the table for support. "Oh, thank _God_."

"The CCTV clearly shows that the van that nearly clipped Gary was dark – medium blue according to the DVLA. Mark repeatedly claimed it was white." Grant's smile doesn't look as if it's going to ebb away any time soon. "He gambled and he _lost_. The minute we showed him the footage and he realised what it meant, he started to talk. To be honest, we had difficulty shutting him up long enough to caution him."

"But he's admitted it? He's admitted killing Erin?"

"He has," Grant tells her solemnly. "According to him, she was asleep when he arrived. He found Boyd's note by the bed and he woke her up to challenge her about it. They had a row… I'm sure you can imagine the rest."

"He couldn't bear it," Grace says softly. "He believes he's far superior to everyone else, and he simply couldn't bear the thought that she'd cuckolded him with another man. It wasn't jealousy, it was _ego_."

"I'd say that was a pretty good assessment. He was far from complimentary about her, it has to be said."

The world seems to have temporarily become an oddly surreal place. Grace hears herself ask, "And Boyd?"

"I'm about to take care of all the formalities now," Grant tells her. "My Super will have to decide if we're de-arresting him or simply releasing him without charge, but if you care to wait here a bit longer you can have the dubious privilege of taking him off our hands."

"It's really over?" she asks, not caring if she sounds as foolish as she thinks she does.

Grant nods in confirmation. His smile has become gentle, reassuring. "It's _really_ over. For you and Mr Boyd, at least. We've officially charged Mark Fuller with the murder of Erin Jackson and with attempting to pervert the course of justice."

-oOo-


	10. Moving On

**TEN – Moving On**

"It was Marshall," she says quietly as they walk towards her car. She doesn't really care whether Boyd acknowledges her words or not, she just needs to say them. Needs absolute clarity before she can even begin to seriously think about what to do next. "He had my phone traced."

"I know; Grant told me." Predictably succinct. He hasn't said very much since they were reunited in the interview room and Grace suspects that's not about to change. They are both wary, it seems. Wary, tired and maybe just too far apart to want to attempt appeasement. Well, so be it. Everything has its time.

"Good." Grace doesn't intend to say more, but the words form anyway. "I just didn't want… Well, I didn't want us to go our separate ways with you believing I'd betrayed you."

Boyd does not look at her. "Thinking of going somewhere?"

"Thinking of handing in my resignation to the Home Office," she says candidly. She's not going to lie to him. Perhaps it's not going to end the way she always imagined, not the way she occasionally found herself secretly hoping in the empty midnight hours, but she owes him the truth. The afternoon is chilly and maybe that's why she shivers slightly. "Go before I'm pushed, that sort of thing."

"Jumping the gun a bit, aren't you?"

She snorts softly. "By the time Marshall's finished ripping my professional reputation to bits…"

For the first time Boyd turns his head to look at her. She suspects the intense gaze that surveys her keenly sees far more than she wants it to. He shakes his head slightly. "Don't worry about Marshall. He's already firmly out of favour at the Yard and he's not going to win any friends by putting the boot into the best offender profiler the Met has access to. I told you, he's a complete fuckwit. A misogynistic pain in the fu – "

"That may very well be," she interrupts swiftly, not willing to listen to a tirade, "but it's not just him. I think it's probably time to move on, that's all. Anyway, I'm too old bother with putting in all the effort required to break in a new boss."

Perhaps Boyd appreciates her strained attempt at a levity that clearly neither of them is feeling because he raises his eyebrows a fraction in response. "Got an unfortunate accident planned for the old one, have you?"

She eyes him suspiciously, trying to interpret what he's not saying. "What do you know that I don't?"

"Wrongful arrest for a start?" he suggests as they draw closer to her car. "I'm fairly sure I'm going to get a long and extremely conciliatory telephone call from the DAC's office within the next couple of hours; a call which is going to conclude with me being asked just how soon I'd like to take back the reins from Chief Superintendent Billy fucking Marshall."

Grace is immediately sceptical. "You don't think this has been a bridge too far, as it were?"

"They know I've got them over a bloody barrel, Grace. Arresting one of your own senior officers for a murder he didn't commit? The press would love to get hold of _that_ story. Besides, they know they don't have anyone else who's stupid enough to waste their life rummaging through old bones."

She isn't sure why she's faintly surprised by his stoicism, his determination to keep soldiering on. This is exactly the tough, stubborn man she knows, after all. There might still be things that urgently need resolving between them, but she's very pleased to see him again. It doesn't lessen her powerful sense of injustice. "So that's that? You conveniently forget how quick they were to believe the absolute worst of you and just carry on as if none of this ever happened?"

He shrugs and leans himself up against her car, hands in pockets. "I guess so."

"You never learn, do you, Boyd?" she asks rhetorically.

He regards her without any particular expression. "I'm sure you'd love to suggest all sorts of fancy counselling to help me get over the trauma of the last week, Grace, but I think I'll pass on that if it's all the same to you. There's nothing wrong with me that a good meal, a few drinks and a couple of decent night's sleep won't fix."

"As a psychologist – "

"Don't," he says vehemently, evidently not remotely in the mood for what has become something of a long-standing joke between them. Or _had_, until the previous night.

Grace unlocks the car in silence. Half a conversation is nowhere enough to put things right between them but it might be a starting point. Only when they are sitting next to each other staring purposefully at the parked cars in front of them instead of at each other does she say, "I'm sorry."

Boyd looks round at her, dark eyes faintly quizzical. "What for? I'm fairly sure I owe most of my current status as a free man to you."

She can't forget the raw pain in his voice the night before. The pain and the savagery. There's a lump in her throat as she says, "For obviously not being the friend you needed me to be after Luke died."

He looks immediately uncomfortable. "Ah. That."

"That." It's an effort for Grace to retain her composure but she does her best. Neither of them are currently strong enough to weather yet another intense emotional storm.

It takes Boyd several moments to admit, "Look, I wasn't exactly thinking straight last night, Grace."

She doubts she'll ever be unable to picture the frightening look in his eyes as they stood together less than five minutes' walk from one of the city's most notorious suicide spots. She has no doubt that if she hadn't forced him into agreeing to meet her the preceding night she would now be mourning the loss of a very dear friend. Because he genuinely is exactly that. Whether he realises it or not. Trying to sound calm, Grace merely says, "I did notice."

Evidently more than a little embarrassed, Boyd looks away; goes back to studying the parked cars with unnatural interest. When he finally speaks again his voice is gruff. "You're not really going to resign, are you?"

"I don't know." It's the truth. The only answer she can give him.

"Don't."

"Why?"

He sighs loudly and pointedly. "Because you're a bloody good psychologist and I _need_ a bloody good psychologist."

She can almost feel the familiar equilibrium hesitantly attempting to re-establish itself. They should talk honestly, openly and at length about all the important, awkward things but they won't. They never do. They resolve conflict between them in their own discordant way; always have, probably always will. It may not be entirely satisfactory, but it works. Eventually and after a fashion. She sniffs disdainfully. "Out of the mouths of babes, Boyd."

His reply is peevish. "I meant _professionally_."

"I know."

"_Personally_," he says, surprising her, "I just need a bloody good friend, Grace."

She reaches out to start the engine but lets her hand drop limply back into her lap. Doesn't look at him as she says, "You've got one. You always _have_ had. You promised not to exclude me, but that's _exactly_ what you did. The moment Luke's funeral was over you shut me out completely."

Boyd's reply is gruff. "I know."

Grace knows he doesn't want to discuss it – any of it – but she's not ready to fall meekly into silence just to please him. With some force she demands, "How was I _supposed_ to be the friend you needed, Boyd, when you wouldn't let me get anywhere near you?"

"I didn't need a psychologist, Grace," he says remarkably gently. "I still don't."

"That's open to bloody debate."

"There you go again."

She turns slightly in her seat so she can study him. Boyd gazes back with no particular expression. He needs a shower, a shave and a change of clothes, and he still looks impossibly tired and haggard, but the lost, haunted look has vanished from his eyes. It gives her hope, makes her think that perhaps the high stress of the preceding days has, ironically, acted as some kind of catalyst – has, in fact, helped to start the emotional healing process he has been obstinately avoiding. Grudgingly, she says, "All right. Perhaps I do sometimes have a little trouble keeping my thoughts as a professional to myself."

"'Perhaps'?"

Instantly irked by his sardonic tone, she snaps, "Oh, it's none of my damn business anyway, is it? Just do whatever the hell you think works for you, and I won't say another bloody word about it."

His reply is uncharacteristically placid. "You can be incredibly defensive sometimes, Grace; you know that, don't you?"

She snorts. "I wonder _why_."

Boyd looks away, clearly not in the mood to continue an exchange that could go very badly wrong for both of them. He sounds surprisingly calm as he suddenly asks, "You never thought I'd killed her? Not even for a moment?"

"No," Grace says honestly. "Oh, there were times when it all seemed so completely inexplicable that I found myself asking the question, but no. Not at any point did I actually believe you were guilty."

"And that's exactly why you're not going to resign," Boyd tells her with a slight shrug. "That's why we'll both move on from this. _All_ of it."

He's right, she realises. Sometimes they seriously wound each other – deliberately or accidentally – but eventually they always seem to find their way back to the peculiar equipoise that somehow works between them. She sniffs disdainfully. "Is this where I'm supposed to say something like 'Even though you can be a complete bastard, I know you're a good man at heart'?"

Boyd almost smiles. "Yeah. Traditionally."

She nods. "Thought so."

He waits a pointed few seconds then orders, "Oh, just start the bloody car, Grace. Before we both die of old age."

She does so, but before she makes any move to pull out of the narrow parking space she says, "No more heavy drinking? No more ill-advised one-night stands?"

He raises his chin a stubborn fraction. "No more 'I'm a psychologist and I know best'?"

Neither of them will win. Grace knows it and she's fairly sure Boyd does, too. She shrugs nonchalantly. "It's a long walk back to Greenwich, you know."

"And for that reason alone, I'm declaring a truce. Drive, Grace."

She does so, carefully nosing her car out into the steadily-increasing afternoon traffic. The world around them seems strangely ordinary, totally oblivious to the drama and emotions they've been going through. Nothing has changed. Except it has. Carefully, she asks, "Will you go to her funeral? Erin's?"

Boyd's response is so quick and sharp that it's obvious he's given the matter some thought. "I don't think her poor bloody parents would appreciate it, do you?"

He doesn't like funerals. Never has. It's not just the too-raw memories of watching his son's coffin being solemnly carried into the church. No, Grace suspects that to Boyd funerals represent everything he simply doesn't know how to deal with – pain, guilt, shame, anger… She says, "As long as that's the _only_ reason why you want to stay away."

He gives her a withering look. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"

"We are who we are, Boyd. As – "

"Grace."

" – your _friend_, I just want what's best for you. That's all. There's no agenda."

The only reply is a sullen-sounding grunt. She doesn't push. It's an exercise in futility and she's far too tired for it anyway. She's already imagining the simple joy of eventually driving home, having a quick bite to eat and going almost immediately to bed for a long, tranquil and hopefully completely uninterrupted sleep. Tomorrow she will think things through slowly and carefully, but she thinks she already knows what she's going to decide. Better the devil you know, as the old saying goes. Given that Boyd seems – amazingly – to have yet again survived to fight another day, there don't seem to be very many decisions to be made about her immediate future.

"It hurts," he announces abruptly, "it hurts every _fucking_ minute of every _fucking_ day."

So incredibly raw, still, those deep wounds. Grace bites back the words of advice that rise automatically to her lips and simply replies, "I know. But it _will_ get better. If you let it."

With a sudden dark mixture of humour and asperity, he says, "I'm a complete bloody mess, aren't I? A psychological train-wreck."

Not exactly a technical term, but a fairly apt description, nevertheless. But she's not going to be drawn into yet another dangerous skirmish with him. Not today. "You're human, that's all. Fallible. Vulnerable. Just like the rest of us. Trying to kid yourself that you're not isn't… helpful."

Boyd is silent for several contemplative moments. When he speaks, there's a trace of diffidence in his voice. "Will you come with me? To her funeral?"

Not what she expected him to say. Grace concentrates doggedly on the road ahead. "I'm your friend, aren't I? Of course I will, if you want me to. Change of heart?"

"Maybe." His tone has changed, become a touch resigned. "Maybe it's time I started to face up to things again instead of running away from them or trying to pretend they're not happening."

Grace does not look at him. She hopes he doesn't hear the telling rasp of emotion in her voice as she says, "Welcome back to the human race, Peter."

Boyd glances at her and says nothing. But when she offers him a cautious smile, he grudgingly smiles back.

_- the end -_

xXx

* * *

**A/N:** _Thank you for reading this fic right to the bitter end!  
If you enjoyed it, you might like to know that there is a companion piece planned for the near future. :)_


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